WE       TWO 


A   NOVEL 


3.///, 


^  ^'     il^ 


BY 

EDNA     LYALL 

AUTHOB  OF    "  DONOVAN." 


"Men  are  so  made  as  to  resent  nothing  more  impatiently  than  to  be  treated  as 
jJminal  for  opinions  which  they  deem  true." — Spinoza. 

"  We  two  are  a  multitude." — Ovid. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1,  3,  AND  5  BOND  STREET. 

1887. 


PRO     CON. 

1871—1884. 
♦Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth.* 


CONTENTS. 


Chap. 

I.   BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE    .  .  « 

II.   FROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE 

III.  LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW 

IV.  '  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !' 

V.  erica's  resolve  .... 

VI.   PARIS 

VII.   "NVHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT    . 
VIII.  '  WHY  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT  ? '  , 

IX.  ROSE 

X.   HARD  AT  WORK        .  .  .  • 

XI.  THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN  .  • 

XII.  raeburn's  home-coming    . 

XIII.  LOSING  ONE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER 

XIV.  CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND 
XV.  AN  INTERVAL  .... 

XVI.   HYDE  PARK  .... 

XVII.  AT  death's  DOOR  .  .  . 

XVIII.   ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED  ?        , 

XIX.  AT  THE  MUSEUM     .... 

XX.   STORM 

XXI.   WHAT  IT  INVOLVED  •  •  • 

XXII.   AN  EDITOR       ....  * 

XXIII.   ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE  .  ,  • 


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Till 


CONTENTS. 


Chap. 
XXIV.    THK  NEW  RKLATIONS 

XXV.  L.VDY  Caroline's  dinner 

XXVI.  A  FRIEND    .... 

XXVII.  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR  . 

XXVIII.  TUE  lIArriKST  OF  WEEKS. 

XXIX.  GREVSIIOT  AGAIN 

XXX.  SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLCR  . 

XXXI.  BRIAN  AS  AVENGER    . 

XXXII.  FIESOLE       .... 

XXXIII.  '  RIGHT  ONWARD  ' 

XXXIV.  THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CTT  OF  ALL 
XXXV.  RAEBURN  I'.  POGSON   . 

XXXVI.  rose's  adventure    . 

XXXVII.    DREEING  OUT  THE  INCn     . 
XXXVIII.   HALCYON  DAYS   . 
XXXIX.   ASHBOROUGH      . 
XL.   MORS  JANUA  VIT^ 
XL!.    RF.SULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWING 
Xl.Il     A  NEW  year's  dawn  . 


Fagb 

200 
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224 
238 
2o2 
2G1 
2GG 
270 
280 
800 
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384 
395 
401 


^W^E     T"V7"0. 


CHAPTER  I. 


BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE. 

Still  humanity  grows  clearer, 
Being  learned  the  more. 


Jean  Ingelow. 


There  are  three  things  in  this  world  which  deserve  no  quarter- 
Hypocrisy,  Pharisaism,  and  Tyranny,  p   -p 

People  who  have  been  brought  up  in  the  country,  or  in  small 
places  where  every  neighbour  is  known  by  sight,  are  apt  to 
think  that  life  in  a  large  town  must  lack  many  of  the  interests 
which  they  have  learned  to  find  in  their  more  limited  com- 
munities. In  a  somewhat  bewildered  way,  they  gaze  at  the 
shifting  crowd  of  strange  faces,  and  wonder  whether  it  would 
be  possible  to  feel  completely  at  home  where  all  the  sur- 
roundings of  life  seem  ever  changing  and  unfamih'ar. 

But  those  who  have  lived  long  in  one  quarter  of  London,  or 
of  any  other  large  town,  know  that  there  are  in  reality  almost 
as  many  links  between  the  actors  of  the  town  life-drama  as 
between  those  of  the  country  life-drama. 

Silent  recognitions  pass  between  passengers  who  meet  day 
after  day  in  the  same  morning  or  evening  train,  on  the  way  to 
or  from  work  ;  the  faces  of  omnibus  conductors  grow  familiar ; 
we  learn  to  know  perfectly  well  on  what  day  of  the  week  and 
at  what  hour  the  well-known  organ-grinder  will  make  his 
appearance,  and  in  what  street  we  shall  meet  the  city  clerk 
or  the  care-worn  little  daily  governess  on  their  way  to  office  or 
school. 

It  so  happened  that  Brian  Osmond,  a  young  doctor  who 
had  not  been  very  long  settled  in  the  Bloomsbury  regions,  had 
an  engagement  which  took  him  every  afternoon  down  Gower 
Street,  and  here  many  faces  had  grown  familiar  to  him.     He 


^  BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE, 

invariably  met  the  same  sallow-faced  postman,  the  same  nasal- 
voiced  milkman,  the  same  pompous-looking  man  with  the 
bushy  whiskers  and  the  shiny  black  bag,  on  his  way  home  from 
the  city.  But  the  only  passenger  in  whom  he  took  any  in- 
terest was  a  certain  bright-faced  little  girl  whom  he  generally 
met  just  before  the  Montague  Tlace  crossing.  He  always 
called  her  his  '  little  girl,'  though  she  was  by  no  means  little  in 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word,  being  at  least  sixteen, 
end  rather  tall  for  her  years.  But  there  was  a  sort  of  fresh- 
ness and  naivete  and  youthfulness  about  her  which  made  him 
use  that  adjective.  She  usually  carried  a  pile  of  books  in  a 
strap,  so  he  conjectured  that  she  must  be  coming  from  school, 
and,  ever  since  he  had  first  seen  her,  she  had  worn  the  same 
rough  blue  serge  di*ess,  and  the  same  quaint  little  fur  hat.  In 
other  details,  however,  he  could  never  tell  in  the  least  how  he 
should  find  her.  She  seemed  to  have  a  mood  for  every  day. 
Sometimes  she  would  be  in  a  great  hurry  and  would  almost 
run  past  him  ;  sometimes  she  would  saunter  along  in  the  most 
unconventional  way,  glancing  from  time  to  time  at  a  book  or  a 
paper ;  sometimes  her  eager  fiice  would  look  alisolutely  be- 
witching in  its  brightness  ;  sometimes  scarcely  less  bewitching 
in  a  consuming  anxiety  which  seemed  unnatural  in  one  so 
young. 

One  rainy  afternoon  in  November,  lirian  was  as  usual 
making  his  way  down  Gower  Street,  his  umbrella  held  low  to 
shelter  him  from  the  driving  rain  which  seemed  to  come  in  all 
directions.  The  milkman's  shrill  voice  was  still  far  in  the 
distance,  the  man  of  letters  was  still  at  work  upon  knockers 
some  way  off,  it  was  not  yet  time  for  his  little  girl  to  make  her 
appearance,  and  he  was  not  even  thinking  of  her,  when  sud- 
denly his  umV)rella  was  nearly  knocked  out  of  his  hand  by 
coming  violently  into  collision  with  another  umbrella.  Brought 
thus  to  a  sudden  stand,  he  looked  to  see  who  it  was  who  had 
charged  him  with  such  violence,  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  his  Uiiknown  friend.  He  had  never  been  quite  so  close  to 
her  before.  Her  quaint  face  had  always  fascinated  him,  but  on 
nearer  view  he  thought  it  the  loveliest  face  he  had  ever  seen — 
it  took  his  heart  by  storm. 

It  was  fi-amed  in  soft,  silky  masses  of  duslcy  auburn  hair 
which  hung  over  the  broad,  white  forehead,  but  at  the  back 
was  scarcely  longer  than  a  boy's.  The  features,  though  not 
regular,  were  delicate  and  piquant ;  the  usual  faint  rose-flush 
on  the  cheeks  deepened  now  to  carnation,  perhaps  because  of 


BniAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  3 

the  slight  contretemps,  perhaps  becaiise  of  some  deeper  emotion 
— Brian  fancied  the  latter,  for  the  clear,  golden-brown  eyes 
that  were  lifted  to  his  seemed  bright  either  with  indignation  or 
with  unshed  tears.  To-day  it  was  clear  that  the  mood  was  not 
a  happy  one  :  his  little  girl  was  in  trouble. 

'  I  am  very  sorry,'  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  and  speaking 
in  a  low,  musical  voice,  but  with  the  unembarrassed  frankness 
of  a  child.  '  I  really  wasn't  thinking  or  looking,  it  was  very 
careless  of  me,' 

Brian  of  course  took  all  the  blame  to  himself,  and  apolo- 
gised profusely;  but  though  he  would  have  given  much  to 
detain  her,  if  only  for  a  moment,  she  gave  him  no  opportunity, 
but  with  a  slight  inclination  passed  rapidly  on.  He  stood 
quite  still,  watching  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  aware  of  a 
sudden  change  in  his  life.  He  was  a  busy,  hard-working  man, 
not  at  all  given  to  dreams,  and  it  was  no  dream  that  he  was  in 
now.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had  met  his  ideal,  had 
spoken  to  her  and  she  to  him ;  that  somehow  in  a  single 
moment  a  new  world  had  opened  out  to  him.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  fallen  in  love. 

The  trifling  occurrence  had  made  no  great  impression  on 
the  '  little  girl '  herself.  She  was  rather  vexed  with  herself  for 
the  carelessness,  but  a  much  deeper  trouble  was  filling  her 
heart.  She  soon  forgot  the  passing  interruption  and  the 
bi-own-bearded  uan  with  the  pleasant  gray  eyes  who  had  apolo- 
gised for  what  was  quite  her  fault.  Something  had  gone 
wrong  that  day,  as  Brian  had  surmised ;  the  eyes  gi-ew 
brighter,  the  carnation  flush  deepened  as  she  hurried  along, 
the  delicate  lips  closed  with  a  curiously  hard  expression,  the 
hands  were  clasped  with  unnecessary  tightness  round  the 
umbrella   and   the   handle   of  the   book-strap. 

She  passed  up  Guilford  Square,  but  did  not  turn  into  any 
of  the  old  decayed  houses  ;  her  home  Avas  far  less  imposing. 
At  the  corner  of  the  square  there  is  a  narrow  opening  which 
leads  into  a  sort  of  blind  alley  paved  with  grim  flag-stones. 
Here,  facing  a  high  blank  wall,  are  four  or  five  very  dreary 
houses.  She  entered  one  of  these,  put  down  her  wet  umbrella 
in  the  shabby  little  hall,  and  opened  the  door  of  a  barely- 
furnished '  room,  the  walls  of  which  were,  however,  lined  with 
books.  Beside  the  fire  was  the  one  really  comfortable  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  room,  an  Ilkley  couch,  and  upon  it  lay  a  very 
wan-looking  invalid,  who,  as  the  door  opened,  glanced  up  with  a 
Bmilc  of  welcome. 


i  BRIAN  FALLS  IS  LOVE. 

*  Why,  Erica,  you  are  home  early  to-day.     How  is  that  ? ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  said  Erica,  tossing  down  her  books  in  a 
way  which  showed  her  mother  that  she  was  troubled  about 
something.  '  I  suppose  I  tore  along  at  a  good  rate,  and  there 
wa.s  no  temptation  to  stay  at  the  High  School.' 

'  Come  and  tell  me  about  it,'  said  the  mother,  gently ; 
*  what  has  gone  wrong,  little  one  1 ' 

'  Everything  ! '  exclaimed  Erica,  vehemently.  '  Everything 
always  docs  go  wrong  with  us  and  always  will,  I  suppose.  I 
wish  you  had  never  sent  me  to  school,  mother ;  I  wish  I  need 
never  see  the  place  again  ! ' 

*  But  till  to-day  you  enjoyed  it  so  much.' 

*  Yes,  the  classes  and  the  being  with  Gertrude.  But  that 
will  never  be  the  same  again.  It's  just  this,  mother,  I'm  never 
to  speak  to  Gertrude  again — to  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with    her.' 

'  Who  said  so  ?     And  why  ? ' 

'  Why  1  Because  I'm  myself,'  said  Erica,  with  a  bitter 
little  laugh.  *  How  I  can  help  it,  nobody  seems  to  thinlc.#L 
But  Gertrude's  fatlier  has  come  back  from  Africa,  and  was 
horrified  to  learn  that  we  were  friends,  made  her  promise  never 
to  speak  to  me  again,  and  made  her  write  this  note  about  it. 
Look  ! '  and  she  took  a  crumpled  envelope  from  her  pocket. 

The  mother  read  the  note  in  silence,  and  an  expression  of 
pain  came  over  her  face.  Erica,  who  was  very  impetuous, 
snatched  it  away  from  her  when  she  saw  that  look  of  sadness. 

'  Don't  read  the  horrid  thing  ! '  she  exclaimed,  crushing  it 
up  in  her  hand.  '  There,  we  will  bum  it ! '  and  she  threw  it 
into  the  fire  with  a  vehemence  Avhich  somehow  relieved  her. 

'  You  shouldn't  have  done  that,'  said  her  mother.  '  Your 
father  will  be  sure  to  want  to  see  it.' 

'No,  no,  no,'  cried  Erica,  passionately,  'He  must  not 
know ;  you  must  not  tell  him,  mother.' 

'  Dear  child,  have  you  not  learnt  tliat  it  is  impossible  to 
keep  anything  from  him  ?  He  will  find  out  directly  tliat  some- 
thing is  wrong.' 

'  It  will  grieve  him  so,  he  must  not  hear  it,'  said  Erica. 
'  He  cares  so  much  for  what  hurts  us.  Oh  !  why  are  people  so 
hard  and  cruel  1  Why  do  they  treat  us  like  lepers  ?  It  isn't 
all  because  of  losing  Gertrude  ;  I  could  bear  that  if  there  were 
some  real  reason, — if  she  went  away  or  died.  But  there's  no 
reason  !  It's  all  prejudice  and  bigotry  and  injustice  ;  it's  that 
which  makes  it  sting  so.' 


BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  U 

Erica  was  not  at  all  given  to  tears,  but  tliere  Avas  now  a 
sort  of  choking  in  her  throat,  and  a  sort  of  dimness  in  her  eyes, 
which  made  her  rather  hurriedly  settle  down  on  the  floor  in 
her  own  particular  nook  beside  her  mother's  couch,  where  her 
face  could  not  be  seen.  There  was  a  silence.  Presently  the 
mother  spoke,  stroking  back  the  wavy,  auburn  hair  with  her 
thin  white  hand. 

'For  a  long  time  I  have  dreaded  this  for  you.  Erica.  I 
was  afraid  you  didn't  realise  the  sort  of  position  the  world  will 
give  you.  Till  lately  you  have  seen  scarcely  any  but  our  own 
people,  but  it  can  hardly  be,  darling,  that  you  can  go  on  much 
longer  without  coming  into  contact  with  others ;  and  then, 
moi-e  and  more,  you  must  realise  that  you  are  cut  off  from 
much  that  other  girls  may  enjoy.' 

'Why?'  questioned  Erica.  'Why  can't  they  be  friendly]' 
W^hy  must  they  cut  us  off  from  everything "? ' 

'  It  does  seem  unjust ;  but  you  must  remember  that  we 
belong  to  an  unpopular  minority.' 

'  But  if  I  belonged  to  the  larger  party,  I  would  at  least  be 
just  to  the  smaller,'  said  Erica.  '  How  can  they  expect  us  to 
think  their  system  beautiful  when  the  very  first  thing  they 
show  us  is  hatred  and  meanness.  Oh  !  if  I  belonged  to  the 
ether  side  I  would  show  them  how  diff"erent  it  might  be.' 

'  I  believe  you  would,'  said  the  mother,  smiling  a  little  at 
the  idea,  and  at  the  vehemence  of  the  speaker.  '  But,  as  it  is. 
Erica,  I  am  afraid  you  must  school  yourself  to  endure.  After 
all,  I  fancy  you  will  be  glad  to  share  so  soon  in  your  father's 
vexations.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Erica,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead, 
and  giving  herself  a  kind  of  mental  shaking,  '  I  am  glad  of  that. 
After  all,  they  can't  spoil  the  best  part  of  our  lives  !  I  shall 
go  into  the  garden  to  get  rid  of  my  bad  temper ;  it  doesn't 
rain  now.' 

She  struggled  to  her  feet,  picked  up  the  little  fur  hat  which 
had  fallen  off,  kissed  her  mother,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  '  garden '  was  Erica's  favourite  resort,  her  own  par- 
ticular property.  It  was  about  fifteen  feet  squai-e,  and  no  one 
but  a  Londoner  would  have  bestowed  on  it  so  dignified  a  name. 
But  Erica,  who  was  of  an  inventive  turn,  had  contrived  to 
make  the  most  of  the  little  patch  of  ground,  had  induced  ivy 
to  grow  on  the  ugly  brick  walls,  and  with  infinite  care  and 
satisfaction  had  nursed  a  few  flowers  and  shrubs  into  tolerably 
healthy  though   smutty  life.      In   one   of  the   corners   Tom 


6  BHIAX  FALLS  IX  LOVE. 

Craigie,  her  favourite  cousin,  had  put  up  a  rough  wooden  bench 
for  her,  and  here  she  read  and  dreamed  as  contentedly  as  if 
her  *  garden  ground  '  had  been  fairyland.  Here,  too,  she  in- 
variably came  when  anything  had  gone  wrong,  when  the  end- 
less troubles  about  money  which  had  weighed  upon  her  all  her 
life  became  a  little  less  bearable  than  usual,  or  when  some  act 
of  discourtesy  or  harshness  to  her  father  had  roused  in  her  a 
tingling,  burning  sense  of  indignation. 

Erica  was  not  one  of  those  people  who  take  life  easily : 
things  went  very  deeply  with  her.  In  spite  of  her  brightness 
and  vivacity,  in  spite  of  her  readiness  to  see  the  ludicrous  in 
everything,  and  her  singularly  quick  perceptions,  she  was  also 
very  keenly  alive  to  other  and  graver  impressions. 

Her  anger  had  passed,  but  still,  as  she  paced  round  and 
round  her  small  domain,  her  heart  was  very  heavy.  Life 
seemed  perplexing  to  her  ;  but  her  mother  had  somehow  struck 
the  right  key-note  when  she  had  spoken  of  the  vexations  which 
might  be  shared.  There  was  something  inspiriting  in  that 
thought,  certainly,  for  Erica  worshipped  her  father.  By  de- 
grees the  trouble  and  indignation  died  away,  and  a  very  sweet 
look  stole  over  the  grave  little  face. 

A  smutty  sparrow  came  and  peered  do^^•n  at  her  from  the 
ivy-covered  wall,  and  chirped  and  twittered  in  quite  a  friendly 
way,  perhaps  recognising  the  scatterer  of  its  daily  bread. 

'After  all,  tliouglit  Erica,  'with  ourselves  and  the  animals, 
we  might  let  the  rest  of  the  world  treat  us  as  they  please.  I 
am  glad  they  can't  turn  the  animals  and  birds  against  us ! 
That  would  be  worse  than  anything.' 

Then,  suddenly  turning  from  the  abstract  to  the  practical, 
she  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  shabby  little  sealskin  purse. 

'Still  sixpence  of  my  prize-money  over,'  she  remarked  to 
herself.  '  I'll  go  and  buy  some  scones  for  tea.   Father  likes  them.' 

Erica's  fi\ther  was  a  Scotchman,  and,  though  so-called 
scones  were  to  be  had  at  most  shops,  there  was  only  one  place 
where  she  could  buy  scones  which  she  considered  worthy  the 
name,  and  that  was  at  the  Scotch  baker's  in  Southampton 
Row.  SI;e  hurried  along  the  wet  pavements,  glad  that  the 
rain  was  over,  for  as  soon  as  her  purchase  was  completed  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  indulge  for  a  few  minutes  in  what  had 
lately  become  a  very  frequent  treat,  namely,  a  pause  before  a 
certain  tempting  store  of  second-hand  liooks.  She  had  never 
had  money  enough  to  buy  anything  except  the  necessary 
Rf'hool  books,  and,  being  a  great  lover  of  poetry,  she   alvvaya 


BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  7 

seized  with  avidity  on  anything  that  was  to  be  found  outside 
the  book-shop.  Sometimes  she  -would  carry  away  a  verse  of 
Swinburne,  which  would  ring  in  her  eyes  for  days  and  days; 
sometimes  she  would  read  as  much  as  two  or  thice  pages  of 
Shelley.  No  one  had  ever  interrupted  her,  and  a  certain  sense 
of  impropriety  and  daring  was  rather  stimulating  than  other- 
wise. It  always  brought  to  her  mind  a  saying  in  the  proverbs 
of  Solomon,  '  Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  and  bread  eaten  in  secret 
is  pleasant.' 

For  three  successive  days  she  had  found  to  her  great 
delight  Longfellow's  Hiawatha.  The  strange  metre,  the 
musical  Indian  names,  the  delightfully  described  animals,  all 
served  to  make  the  poem  wonderfully  fascinating  to  her.  She 
thought  a  page  or  two  of  Hiawatha  would  greatly  sweeten  her 
somewhat  bitter  world  this  afternoon,  and  with  her  bag  of 
scones  in  one  hand  and  the  book  in  the  other  she  read  on 
happily,  quite  unconscious  that  three  pair  of  eyes  were  watching 
her  from  within  the  shop. 

The  wrinkled  old  man  who  was  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
place  had  two  customers,  a  tall  gray-bearded  clergyman  with 
bright,  kindly  eyes,  and  his  son,  the  same  Brian  Osmond  whom 
Erica  had  charged  with  her  umbrella  in  Gower  Street. 

'  An  outside  customer  for  you,'  remarked  Charles  Osmond, 
the  clergyman,  glancing  at  the  shopkeeper.  Then  to  his  son, 
'  What  a  picture  she  makes  ! ' 

Brian  looked  up  hastily  from  some  medical  books  which  he 
had  been  turning  over. 

'  Why,  that's  my  little  Gower  Street  friend?'  he  exclaimed, 
the  words  being  somehow  surprised  out  of  him,  though  he 
would  fain  have  recalled  them  the  next  minute. 

'  I  don't  interrupt  her,'  said  the  shop  owner.  '  Her  father 
has  done  a  great  deal  of  business  with  me,  and  the  little  lady 
has  a  fancy  for  poetry,  and  don't  get  much  of  it  in  her  life,  I'll 
be  boii:id.' 

*  Why,  who  is  she  % '  asked  Charles  Osmond,  who  was  on 
very  fi'iendly  terms  with  the  old  book-collector. 

'  She's  the  daughter  of  Luke  Raeburn,'  was  the  reply,  '  and 
whatever  folks  may  say,  I  know  that  Mr.  Raeburn  leads  a  hard 
enovigh  life.' 

Brian  turned  away  from  the  speakers,  a  sickening  sense  of 
dismay  at  his  heart.  His  ideal  was  the  daughter  of  Luke 
Raeburn !     And  Luke  Raeburn  was  an  atheist  leader  ! 

For  a  few  minutes  he  lost  consciousness  of  time  and  place, 


8  BRIAK  FALLS  IX  LOVE. 

though  always  seeing  in  a  sort  of  dark  mist  Erica's  lovely 
fi\ce  bending  over  her  book.  The  shopkeeper's  casual  remark 
had  been  a  fearful  blow  to  him ;  yet,  as  he  came  to  himself 
again,  his  heart  went  out  more  and  more  to  the  beautiful  girl 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  what  seemed  to  him  so  barren 
a  creed.  His  dream  of  love,  which  had  been  bright  enough 
only  an  hour  before,  was  suddenly  shadowed  by  an  unthought- 
of  pain,  but  presently  began  to  shine  with  a  new  and  altogether 
difl'ercnt  lustre.  He  began  to  hear  again  what  was  passing 
between  his  father  and  the  shopkeeper, 

'  There's  a  sight  more  good  in  him  than  folks  think.  How- 
ever wrong  his  views,  he  believes  them  right,  and  is  ready  to 
suffer  for  'em,  too.  Bless  me,  that's  odd,  to  be  sure  !  There 
is  Mr,  Uaeburn,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Row  !  Fine  looking 
man,  isn't  he  !' 

Brian,  looking  up  eagerly,,  fancied  he  must  be  mistaken,  for 
the  only  passenger  in  sight  was  a  very  tall  man  of  remarkably 
benign  aspect,  middle-aged,  yet  venerable — or  perhaps  better 
described  by  the  word  *  devotional-looking,'  pervaded  too  by 
a  certain  majesty  of  calmness  which  seemed  scarcely  suited 
to  his  character  of  public  agitator.  The  clean-shaven  and 
somewhat  rugged  face  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  Scotchman, 
the  thick  waves  of  tawny  hair  overshadoAving  the  wide  brow, 
and  the  clear  golden-brown  eyes  showed  Brian  at  once  that 
this  could  be  no  other  than  the  father  of  his  ideal. 

In  the  meantime,  Raeburn,  having  caught  sight  of  his 
daughter,  slowly  crossed  the  road,  and  coming  noiselessly  up 
to  her,  suddenly  took  hold  of  the  book  she  Avas  reading,  and 
with  laughter  in  his  eyes,  said,  in  a  peremptory  voice, 

'  Five  shillings  to  pay,  if  you  please,  miss  ! ' 

Erica,  who  had  been  absorbed  in  the  poem,  looked 
up  in  dismay ;  then  seeing  who  had  spoken  she  began  to 
laugh. 

'  What  a  horrible  fright  you  gave  me,  father !  But  do 
look  at  this  it's  the  loveliest  thing  in  the  world,  Fve  just 
got  to  the  '  very  strong  man  Kwasind.'  I  think  he's  a  little 
like  you  ! ' 

IlaebiuTi,  though  no  very  great  lover  of  poetiy,  took  the 
book  and  read  a  few  lines, 

'  Lonp;  they  lived  in  peace  together, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper,' 


BRIAN  FALT  3  IN  LOVE.  9 

'Good!  That  will  do  very  well  for  you  and  me,  little 
one.  I'm  ready  to  be  your  Kwasind.  What's  the  price  of 
the  thing? — four-and-eixpence  !  Too  much  for  a  luxury.  It 
must  wait  till  our  ship  comes  in.' 

He  put  down  the  book  and  they  moved  on  together,  but 
had  not  gone  many  paces  before  they  were  stopped  by  a  most 
misei'able-looking  beggar  child,  Brian  standing  now  outside 
the  shop,  saw  and  heard  all  that  passed. 

Raeburn  was  evidently  investigating  the  case,  Erica  a  little 
impatient  of  the  interruption  was  remonstrating. 

*  I  thought  you  never  gave  to  beggars,  and  I  am  sure  that 
harrowing  story  is  made  up.' 

'  Very  likely,'  replied  her  father,  '  but  the  hunger  is  real, 
and  I  know  well  enough  what  hunger  is.  What  have  you 
heveV  he  added,  indicating  the  paper  bag  which  Erica  held. 

*  Scones,'  she  said,  unwillingly. 

*  That  will  do,'  he  said,  taking  them  from  her  and  giving 
them  to  the  child.  '  He  is  too  young  to  be  anything  but  the 
victim  of  another's  laziness.  There  !  sit  down  and  eat  them 
while  you  can.' 

The  child  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  with  the  bag  of  scones 
clasped  in  both  hands,  but  he  continued  to  gaze  after  his 
benefactor  till  he  had  passed  out  of  sight,  and  there  was  a 
strange  look  of  surprise  and  gratification  in  his  eyes.  That 
was  a  man  who  knew  !  Many  people  had,  after  hard  begging, 
thrown  him  pence,  many  had  warned  him  off  harshly,  but 
this  man  had  looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  and  had  at  once 
stopped  and  questioned  him,  had  singled  out  the  one  true 
statement  from  a  mass  of  lies,  and  had  given  him  —  not  a 
stale  loaf  with  the  top  cut  off,  a  suspicious  sort  of  charity 
which  always  angered  the  waif — but  his  own  food,  bought  for 
his  own  consumption.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  too,  this  man 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry,  and  had  even  the  insight 
and  shrewdness  to  be  aware  that  the  waif's  best  chance  of 
eating  the  scones  at  all  was  to  eat  them  then  and  there. 
For  the  first  time  a  feeling  of  reverence  and  admiration  was 
kindled  in  the  child's  heart;  he  would  have  done  a  great  deal 
for  his  unknown  friend. 

Raeburn  and  Erica  had  meanwhile  walked  on  in  the  direction 
of  Guilford  Square. 

'  I  had  bought  them  for  you,'  said  Erica,  reproachfully. 

*  And  I  ruthlessly  gave  them  away,'  said  Raeburn,  smiling. 
'That  was  hard  lines;  I  thought  they  were  only  household 


10  BRIAN  FALLS  IN  LOVE. 

stock.  But  after  all  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end, 
or  better.  You  have  given  them  to  me  by  giving  them  to  the 
child.     Never  mind,   "  Little  son  Eric  !  "  ' 

This  was  his  pet  name  for  her,  and  it  meant  a  great  deal 
to  them.  She  was  his  only  child,  and  it  had  at  first  been  a 
great  disappointment  to  every  one  that  she  was  not  a  boy. 
But  Raeburn  had  long  ago  ceased  to  regret  this,  and  the  nick- 
name referred  more  to  Erica's  capability  of  being  both  son  and 
daughter  to  him,  able  to  help  him  in  his  work  and  at  the  same 
time  to  brighten  his  home.  Erica  was  very  proud  of  her 
name,  for  she  had  been  called  after  her  father's  greatest  friend 
Eric  Haebcrlein,  a  celebrated  republican,  who  once  during  a 
long  exile  had  taken  refuge  in  London.  His  views  were  in 
some  respects  more  extreme  than  Raeburn's,  but  in  private  life 
he  was  the  gentlest  and  most  fascinating  of  men,  and  had 
quite  won  the  heart  of  his  little  namesake. 

As  Mrs.  Ilaeburn  had  surmised,  Erica's  father  had  at  once 
seen  that  something  had  gone  wrong  that  day.  The  all- 
observing  eyes,  which  had  noticed  the  hungry  look  in  the 
beggar  child's  face,  noticed  at  once  that  his  own  child  had 
been  troubled. 

'  Something  has  vexed  you,'  he  said.  '  What  is  the  matter, 
Erica?' 

'  I  had  rather  not  tell  you,  father,  it  isn't  anything  much,' 
said  Erica,  casting  down  her  eyes  as  if  all  at  once  the  paving- 
stones  had  become  absorbingly  interesting. 

'  I  fancy  I  know  already,'  said  Eaeburn.  '  It  is  about  your 
friend  at  the  High  School,  is  it  not  1  I  thought  so.  This 
afternoon  I  had  a  letter  from  her  father.' 

'  What  does  he  say  ?     May  I  see  it?'  asked  Erica. 

*  I  tore  it  up,'  said  Raeburn  ;  *  I  thought  you  would  ask  to 
see  it,  and  the  thing  was  really  so  abominably  insolent  that  I 
didn't  want  you  to.     How  did  you  hear  about  it  ? ' 

'  Gertrude  wrote  me  a  note,'  said  Erica. 

*  At  her  father's  dictation,  no  doubt,'  said  Raeburn ;  *  I 
should  know  his  stylo  directly,  let  me  see  it.' 

*  I  thought  it  was  a  pity  to  vex  you,  so  I  burnt  it,'  said 
Erica. 

Tlien,  imable  to  help  being  amused  at  their  efforts  to  save 
each  other,  they  both  laughed,  though  the  subject  was  rather  a 
sore  one. 

*  It  is  the  old  story,'  said  Racbuni.  Life  only,  as  Pope 
Innocent  IIL  benevolently  remarked,    "is  to  be   left  to  the 


FROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE.  11 

children  of  misbelievers,  and  that  only  as  an  act  of  mercy." 
You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  bear  the  social  stigma,  child. 
Do  you  see  the  moral  of  this  1 ' 

'No,'  said  Erica,  v/ith  something  between  a  smile  and  a 
sigh. 

The  moral  of  it  is  that  you  must  be  content  with  your 
own  people,'  said  Eaeburu.  '  There  is  this  one  good  point 
about  persecution — it  does  draw  us  all  nearer  together,  really 
strengthens  us  in  a  hundred  ways.  So,  little  one,  you  must 
forswear  school  fi'iends,  and  be  content  with  your  "  very  strong 
man  Kwasind,"  '  and  we  will 

"  Live  in  peace  together. 
Speak  with  naked  hearts  together." 

By-the-by,  it  is  rather  doubtful  if  Tom  will  be  able  to  come  to 
the  lecture  to-night :  do  you  think  you  can  take  notes  for  me 
instead  1 ' 

This  was  in  reality  the  most  delicate  piece  of  tact  and 
consideration,  for  it  was,  of  course,  Erica's  delight  and  pride  to 
help  her  father. 


CHAPTER    11. 

PROM   EFFECT   TO   CAUSE. 

Only  the  acrid  spirit  of  the  times, 
Corroded  this  true  steel. 

Longfellow. 

Not  Thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 
Not  Tliine  the  zealot's  ban  ; 
Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  Thee 
Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

"Whittieb. 

Ltjkb  Raeburn  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch  clergyman  of  the 
Episcopal  Church.  His  history,  though  familar  to  his  own 
followers  and  to  them  more  poweifully  convincing  than  many 
arguments  against  modern  Christianity,  was  not  generally 
known.  The  orthodox  were  apt  to  content  themselves  with 
'shuddering  at  the  mention  of  his  name ;  very  few  troubled 
themselves  to  think  or  inquire  how  this  man  had  been  driven 


1 2  FROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE. 

into  atheism.  Had  they  done  so  they  might,  perhaps,  have 
treated  him  more  considerately,  at  any  rate  they  must  have 
learnt  that  the  miich-disliked  prophet  of  atheism  was  the  most 
disinterested  of  men,  one  who  had  the  courage  of  his  opinions, 
a  man  of  fearless  honesty, 

Raeburn  had  lost  his  mother  very  early  ;  his  father,  a 
well-to-do  man,  had  held  for  many  years  a  small  living  in  the 
west  of  Scotland.  He  was  rather  a  clever  man,  biit  one-side i 
and  bigoted  ;  cold-hearted,  too,  and  caring  very  little  for  his 
children.  Of  Luke,  however,  he  was,  in  his  peculiar  fashion, 
very  proud,  for  at  an  early  age  the  boy  showed  signs  of  genius. 
The  father  was  no  great  worker ;  though  shi-ewd  and  clever, 
he  had  no  ambition,  and  was  quite  content  to  live  out  his  life 
in  the  retired  little  parsonage  where,  with  no  parish  to  trouble 
him,  and  a  small  and  unexacting  congregation  on  Sundays,  he 
could  do  pretty  much  as  he  pleased.  But  for  his  son  he  was 
ambitious.  Ever  since  his  sixteenth  year — when,  at  a  public 
meeting,  the  boy  had,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  suddenly 
spmng  to  his  feet  and  contradicted  a  false  statement  made  by 
a  great  landowner  as  to  the  condition  of  the  cottages  on  his 
estate — the  father  had  foreseen  future  triumphs  fur  his  son. 
For  the  speech,  though  unpremeditated,  was  marvellously 
clever,  and  there  was  a  power  in  it  not  to  be  accounted  for 
by  a  certain  ring  of  indignation ;  it  was  the  speech  of  a  future 
orator. 

Then,  too,  Luke  had  by  this  time  shown  signs  of  religious 
zeal,  a  zeal  which  his  father,  though  far  from  attempting  to 
copy,  could  not  but  admire.  His  Sunday  services  over,  he 
relapsed  into  the  comfortable,  easy-going  life  of  a  country 
gentleman,  for  the  rest  of  the  week ;  but  his  son  was  inde- 
fatigable, and,  though  little  more  than  a  boy  himself,  gathered 
round  him  the  roughest  lads  of  the  village,  and  by  his  eloquence, 
and  a  certain  peculiar  personal  fascination  which  he  retained  all 
his  life,  absolutely  forced  them  to  listen  to  liim.  The  father 
augured  great  things  for  him,  and  invariably  pro^diesied  that 
he  would  '  live  to  see  him  a  bishop  yet.' 

It  was  a  settled  thing  that  he  should  take  Holy  Orders,  and 
for  some  time  Kaebuni  was  oidy  too  happy  to  carry  out  liis 
father's  plans.  In  his  very  first  term  at  Cambridge,  however, 
he  began  to  feel  doubts,  and,  becoming  convinced  that  he 
could  never  again  accept  the  doctrines  in  which  he  had  been 
educated,  lie  told  his  father  that  he  must  give  up  all  thought 
of  taking  Orders. 


PROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE.  13 

NoW;  unfortuuately,  Mr.  Raebiirn  was  the  very  last  man  to 
understand  or  sympathise  with  any  phase  of  life  through  which 
he  had  not  himself  passed.  He  had  never  been  troubled  with 
religious  doubts ;  scepticism  seemed  to  him  monstrous  and 
unnatural.  He  met  the  confession,  which  his  son  had  made 
in  pain  and  diffidence,  with  a  most  deplorable  want  of  tact. 
In  answer  to  the  perplexing  questions  which  were  put  to  him, 
he  merely  replied  testily  that  Luke  had  been  overworking 
himself,  and  that  he  had  no  business  to  trouble  his  head  with 
matters  which  were  beyond  him,  and  would  fain  have  dismissed 
the  whole  affair  at  once. 

'  But,'  urged  the  son,  '  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  turn 
my  back  upon  these  matter's  when  I  am  preparing  to  teach 
them  V 

'  Nonsense,'  replied  the  father,  angi-ily.  '  Have  not  I  taught 
all  my  life,  preached  twice  a  Sunday  these  thirty  years  without 
perplexing  myself  with  your  questionings  !  Be  off  to  your 
shooting  and  your  golf,  and  let  me  have  no  more  of  this  morbid 
fuss.' 

No  more  was  said ;  but  Luke  Raeburn,  with  his  doubts  and 
questions  shut  thus  into  himself,  drifted  rapidly  from  scepticism 
to  the  most  positive  form  of  unbelief.  When  he  next  came 
home  for  the  long  vacation,  his  father  was  at  length  awakened 
to  the  fact  that  the  son,  upon  whom  all  his  ambition  was  set, 
was  hopelessly  lost  to  the  Church  ;  and  with  this  consciousness 
a  most  bitter  sense  of  disappointment  rose  in  his  heart.  His 
pride,  the  only  side  of  fatherhood  which  he  possessed,  was 
deeply  wounded,  and  his  dreams  of  honourable  distinction  were 
laid  low.  His  wrath  was  great.  Luke  found  the  home  made 
almost  unbearable  to  him.  His  college  career  was  of  course  at 
an  end,  for  his  father  would  not  hear  of  providing  him  with 
the  necessary  funds  now  that  he  had  actually  confessed  his 
atheism.  He  was  hardly  allowed  to  speak  to  his  sisters,  every 
request  for  money  to  start  him  in  some  profession  met  with  a 
sharp  refusal,  and  matters  were  becoming  so  desperate  that  he 
would  probably  have  left  the  place  of  his  own  accoixl  before 
long,  had  not  Mr.  Raeburn  himself  put  an  end  to  a  state  of 
things  which  had  gi'own  insufferable. 

With  some  lurking  hope,  perhaps,  of  convincing  his  son,  he 
resolved  upon  trying  a  course  of  argument.  To  do  him  justice 
he  really  tried  to  pi'epare  himself  for  it,  dragged  down  volumes 
of  dusty  divines,  and  got  up  with  much  pains  Paley's  '  watch  ' 
argument.      There   was   some   honesty,  even  perhaps  a  very 


1 1  FnOM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE. 

little  love,  in  his  mistaken  endeavours;  but  he  did  not  rccogniso 
that,  -while  he  himself  was  unforgiving,  luiloving,  harah,  and 
self-indulgent,  all  his  arguments  for  Christianity  were  of  neces- 
sity null  and  void.  He  arg^icd  for  the  existence  of  a  perfectly- 
loving,  good  God,  all  the  -while  treating  his  son  -with  injustice 
and  tyranny.  Of  course  there  could  be  only  one  residt  from 
a  debate  between  the  two.  Luke  llaeburn  with  his  honesty, 
his  gi-eat  abilities,  his  gift  of  reasoning,  above  all  his  thorough 
earnestness,  had  the  best  of  it. 

To  be  beaten  in  argument  was  naturally  the  one  thing 
which  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Raebm-n  could  not  forgive.  He 
might  in  time  have  learnt  to  tolerate  a  difference  of  opinion, 
he  would  beyond  a  doubt  have  forgiven  almost  any  of  the 
failings  that  he  could  understand,  would  have  paid  Lis  son's 
college  debts  without  a  murmur,  would  have  overlooked  any- 
thing connected  with  Avhat  he  considered  the  necessary  process 
of  'sowing  his  wild  oats.'  But  that  the  fellow  should  presume 
to  think  out  the  greatest  problems  in  the  world,  should  set 
up  his  judgment  against  Paley's,  and  worst  of  all  should 
actually  and  palpably  beat  him  in  argument — this  was  an  un- 
pardonable offence. 

A  stormy  scene  ensued.  The  fiither  in  ungovernable  fury 
heaped  upon  the  son  every  abusive  epithet  he  could  think  of. 
Luke  Racbui-n  spoke  not  a  word ;  he  was  strong  and  self- 
controlled  ;  moreover,  he  knew  that  he  had  had  the  best  of  the 
argument.  He  was  human,  however,  and  his  heart  Avas  wrung 
by  his  Other's  bitterness.  Standing  there  on  that  summer 
day,  in  the  study  of  the  Scotch  parsonage,  the  man's  future 
-was  sealed.  He  suffei'cd  there  the  loss  of  all  things,  but  at  the 
very  time  there  sprang  up  in  him  an  enthusiasm  for  the  cause 
of  frcc-thouglit,  a  passionate,  burning  zeal  for  the  opinions  for 
which  he  suffered,  which  never  left  him,  but  served  as  the  great 
moving  impulse  of  his  wliole  subsequent  life. 

'  I  tell  you,  you  are  not  fit  to  be  in  a  gentleman's  house,' 
thundered  the  father.  'A  rank  atheist,  a  lying  infidel  !  It 
is  against  nature  that  you  should  call  a  parsonage  your 
home.' 

'  It  is  not  particularly  home-like,'  said  the  son,  bitterly. 
*I  can  leave  it  when  you  please.' 

'Can!'  exclaimed  his  father,  in  a  fury,  '  you  tt-zYZ  leave  it, 
sir,  and  this  very  day  too  !  I  disown  you  from  this  time.  I'll 
have  no  atheist  for  my  sou  !  Change  your  views  or  leave  the 
house  at  ouc^\ 


PROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE.  15 

Perhaps  he  expected  his  son  to  make  some  compromise  ;  if 
so  he  showed  what  a  very  shght  knowledge  he  had  of  his 
character.  Luke  Raeburn  had  certainly  not  been  prepared  for 
such  extreme  harshness,  but  with  the  pain  and  grief  and  indig- 
nation there  rose  in  his  heart  a  mighty  resoluteness.  With 
a  face  as  hard  and  rugged  as  the  granite  rocks  without,  he 
wished  his  father  good-bye,  and  obeyed  his  orders. 

Then  had  followed  such  a  struggle  with  the  world  as  few 
men  would  have  gone  through  with.  Cut  off  from  all  friends 
and  relations  by  his  avowal  of  atheism,  and  baffled  again  and 
again  in  seeking  to  earn  his  living,  he  had  more  than  once  been 
on  the  very  brink  of  starvation.  By  sheer  force  of  will  he  had 
won  his  way,  had  risen  above  adverse  circumstances,  had 
fought  down  obstacles,  and  conquered  opposing  powers.  Before 
long  he  had  made  fresh  friends  and  gained  many  followers,  for 
there  was  an  extraordinary  magnetism  about  the  man  which 
almost  compelled  those  who  were  brought  into  contact  with 
him  to  reverence  him. 

It  was  a  curious  history.  First  there  had  been  that  time 
of  grievous  doubt ;  then  he  had  been  thrown  upon  the  world 
friendless  and  penniless,  wdth  the  beliefs  and  hopes  hitherto 
most  sacred  to  him  dead,  and  in  their  place  an  aching  blank. 
He  had  suffered  much.  Treated  on  all  sides  with  harshness 
and  injustice,  it  was  indeed  wonderful  that  he  had  not  de- 
veloped into  a  mere  hater,  a  passionate  downpuller.  But  there 
was  in  his  character  a  nobility  which  would  not  allow  him  to 
rest  at  this  low  level.  The  bitter  hostility  and  injustice  which 
he  encountered  did  indeed  warp  his  mind,  and  every  year  of 
controversy  made  it  more  impossible  for  him  to  take  an  un- 
prejudiced view  of  Christ's  teaching ;  but  nevertheless  he 
could   not   remain   a   mere    destroyer. 

In  that  time  of  blankness,  when  he  had  lost  all  faith  in 
God,  when  he  had  been  robbed  of  friendship  and  family  love, 
he  had  seized  desperately  on  the  one  thing  left  him, — the  love 
of  humanity.  To  him  atheism  meant  not  only  the  assertion — 
'  The  word  God  is  a  word  without  meaning,  it  conveys  nothing 
to  my  understanding.'  He  added  to  this  barren  confession  of 
an  intellectual  state,  a  singularly  high  code  of  duty.  Such  a 
code  as  could  only  have  emanated  from  one  about  whom  there 
lingered  what  Carlyle  has  termed,  a  great  'Aftershine  of 
Christianity.'  He  held  that  the  only  happiness  worth  having 
was  that  which  came  to  a  man  while  engaged  in  promoting 
the   general   good.      That   the   whole   duty   of  man   was  to 


16  FROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE. 

devote  himself  to  the  service  of  others.  And  he  lived  hia 
creed. 

Like  other  people  he  had  his  faults,  but  he  was  always 
ready  to  spend  and  be  spent  for  what  he  considered  the  good  of 
others,  while  every  act  of  injustice  called  forth  his  unsparing 
rebuke,  and  every  oppressed  person  or  cause  was  sure  to  meet 
with  his  support  at  whatever  cost  to  himself.  His  zeal  for 
what  he  regarded  as  the  '  gospel '  of  atheism  grew  and  strength- 
ened year  by  year.  He  was  the  untiring  advocate  of  what  he 
considered  the  truth.  Neither  illness,  nor  small  results,  nor 
loss,  could  quench  his  ardour,  while  opposition  invariably 
stimulated  him  to  fi-esh  efforts.  After  long  years  of  toil,  he 
had  at  length  attained  an  influential  position  in  the  country, 
and  though  crippled  by  debts  incurred  in  the  struggle  for 
freedom  of  speech,  and  living  in  absolute  penury,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  powerful  men  of  the  day. 

The  old  bookseller  had  very  truly  observed  that  there  was 
more  good  in  him  than  people  thought,  he  was  in  fact  a  noble 
character  twisted  the  ^^Tong  way  by  clumsy  and  mistaken 
handling. 

Brian  Osmond  was  by  no  means  bigoted  ;  he  had,  moreover, 
known  those  who  were  intimate  with  Raeburn,  and  con- 
sequently had  heard  enough  of  the  truth  about  him  to  dis- 
believe the  gross  libels  which  were  constantly  being  circulated 
by  the  unscrupulous  among  his  opponents.  Still,  as  on  that 
November  aftci'uoon  he  watched  Kacburn  and  his  daughter 
down  Southampton  Row,  he  Avas  conscious  that  for  the  first 
time  he  fully  regarded  the  atheist  as  a  fellow-man.  The  fact 
was,  that  Piacburn  had  for  long  years  been  the  champion  of  a 
hated  cause ;  he  had  braved  the  full  flood  of  opposition  ;  and 
like  an  isolated  rock  had  been  the  mark  for  so  much  of  the 
rage  and  fury  of  the  elements  that  people  who  knew  him  only 
by  name  had  really  learned  to  regard  him  more  as  a  target 
than  as  a  man.  It  was  who  could  hit  him  hardest,  who  could 
most  effectually  baffle  and  ruin  him  ;  while  the  quieter  spirits 
contented  themselves  with  rarely  mentioning  his  obnoxious 
name,  and  endeavouring  as  far  as  possible  to  ignore  his  exist- 
ence. Brian  felt  that  till  now  he  had  followed  with  the  multi- 
tude to  do  evil.  He  had,  as  fiir  as  possible,  ignored  his  exist- 
ence ;  had  even  been  rather  annoyed  when  his  father  had  once 
publicly  urged  that  Raeburn  should  bo  treated  with  as  much 
justice  and  courtesy  and  consideration  as  if  he  had  been  a 
Christian.     Ho  had  been  vexed  that  his  father  should  suffer  oa 


FROM  EFFECT  TO  CAUSE.  17 

behalf  of  such  a  man,  had  been  half-inclined  to  put  down  the 
scorn  and  contempt  and  anger  of  the  narrow-minded  to  the 
atheist's  account.  The  feeling  had  perhaps  been  natural,  but 
all  was  changed  now ;  he  only  revered  his  father  all  the  more 
for  having  sufFei'ed  in  an  unpopular  cause.  With  some  eager- 
ness, he  went  back  into  the  shop  to  see  if  he  could  gather  any- 
more particulars  from  the  old  bookseller.  Charles  Osmond 
had,  however,  finished  his  purchases  and  his  conversation,  and 
was  ready  to  go. 

'The  second  house  in  Guilford  Terrace,  you  say.'  he 
observed,  turning  at  the  door.  *  Thank  you,  I  shall  be 
sure  to  find  it.  Good-day.'  Then,  turning  to  his  son,  he 
added,  '  I  had  no  idea  we  were  such  near  neighbours  !  Did 
you  hear  what  he  told  me?  Mr.  Raeburn  lives  in  Guilford 
Terrace.' 

'  What,  that  miserable  blind-alley,  do  you  mean,  at  the 
other  side  of  the  square  V 

'  Yes,  and  I'm  just  going  round  there  now,  for  our  friend, 
the  '  Bookworm,'  tells  me  he  has  heard  it  inimoured  that  some 
unscrupulous  person,  who  is  going  to  answer  Mr.  Raebuni  this 
evening,  has  hired  a  band  of  roughs  to  make  a  disturbance  at 
the  meeting.  Fancy  how  indignant  Donovan  would  be  !  I 
only  wish  he  were  here  to  take  word  to  Mr.  Raeburn.' 

'  Will  he  not  most  likely  have  heard  from  some  other 
source  ] '  said  Brian. 

'  Possibly ;  but  I  shall  go  round  and  see.  Such  abomi- 
nations ought  to  be  put  down,  and  if  by  our  own  side  all  the 
better.' 

Brian  was  only  too  glad  that  his  father  should  go,  and  in- 
deed, he  would  probably  have  wished  to  take  the  message  him- 
self had  not  his  mind  been  set  upon  getting  the  best  edition  of 
Longfellow  to  be  found  in  all  London  for  his  ideal.  So,  at  the 
turning  into  Guilford  Square,  the  father  and  son  parted. 

The  bookseller's  information  had  roused  in  Charles  Osmond 
a  keen  sense  of  indignation;  he  walked  on  rapidly  as  soon  as 
he  had  left  his  son,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  had  reached  the 
gloomy  entrance  to  Guilford  Terrace.  It  was  currently  re- 
ported that  Raeburn  made  fabulous  sums  by  his  work,  and 
lived  in  great  luxury ;  but  the  real  fact  was  that,  whatever  his 
income,  few  men  led  so  self-denying  a  life,  or  voluntarily  en- 
dured such  privations.  Charles  Osmond  could  not  help 
wishing  that  he  could  bring  some  of  the  intolerant  with  him 
down  that  gloomy  little  alley,  to  the  door  of  that  comfortless 


IS  LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

lodging-house.  He  rang,  and  was  admitted  into  the  narrow 
passage,  then  shown  into  the  private  study  of  the  great  man. 
The  floor  was  uncarpeted,  the  window  uncurtained,  the  room 
was  almost  dark  ;  but  a  red  glow  of  firelight  served  to  show  a 
large  writing-table  strewn  with  papers,  and  walls  literally  lined 
with  books ;  also  on  the  hearthrug  a  little  figui-e  curled  up  in 
the  most  unconventionally  comfortable  attitude,  dividing  her 
attention  between  making  toast  and  fondling  a  loud-piu-ring 
i;at. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LIFE  FROM  ANOTnER  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

Toleration  an  attack  on  Christianity?  Wliat,  then,  are  we  to  come  to 
this  pass,  to  suppose  that  nothing  can  support  Christianity,  but  the 
principles  of  persecution?  ...  I  am  persuaded  that  toleration,  so  far 
from  being  an  attack  on  Christianity,  becomes  the  best  and  surest 
support  that  can  possibly  be  given  to  it.  .  .  .  Toleration  is  good  for  all, 
or  it  18  good  for  none.  .  .  .  God  forbid  .  I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  take 
toleration  to  be  a  part  of  religion.  Bubke. 

Erica  was,  apparently,  well  used  to  receiving  strangers.  She 
put  down  the  toasting-fork,  but  kept  the  cat  in  her  arms,  as 
she  rose  to  greet  Charles  Osmond,  and  her  frank  and  rather 
childlike  manner  fascinated  him  almost  as  much  as  it  had 
fascinated  Brian. 

*  My  father  will  be  home  in  a  few  minutes,'  she  said,  '  I 
almost  wonder  you  didn't  meet  him  in  the  square  ;  he  has  only 
just  gone  to  send  oflF  a  telegram.  Can  you  Wait  ]  Or  will  you 
leave  a  message?' 

'  I  will  wait,  if  I  may,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  Oh,  don't 
trouble  about  a  light,  I  like  this  dimness  very  well,  and,  please, 
don't  let  me  interrupt  you.' 

Erica  relinquished  a  vain  search  for  candle-lighters,  and 
took  up  her  former  position  on  the  hearthrug  with  her  toasting- 
fork. 

'  I  like  the  gloaming,  too,'  she  said.  '  It's  almost  the  only 
nice  tiling  which  is  economical  !  Everything  else  that  one  likes 
8j)ecially  costs  too  much !  I  wonder  whether  people  with 
money  do  enjoy  all  the  great  treats.' 

'  Very  soon  grow  blase,  I  expect,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 
'The  essence  of  a  treat  is  rarity,  you  see.' 


LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW.  19 

*  I  suppose  it  is.  But  I  think  I  could  enjoy  ever  so  many 
things  for  years  and  years  without  growing  blase,'  said  Erica. 
'  Sometimes  I  like  just  to  fancy  what  life  might  be  if  there  were 
no  tiresome  Chi'istians,  and  bigots,  and  law-suits.' 

Charles  Osmond  laughed  to  himself  in  the  dim  light !  the 
remark  was  made  with  such  perfect  sincerity,  and  it  evidently 
had  not  da^vned  on  the  speaker  that  she  could  be  addressing 
any  but  one  of  her  father's  followers.  Yet  the  words  saddened 
him  too.  He  jvist  caught  a  glimpse  through  them  of  life 
viewed  from  a  directly  opposite  point. 

'Your  father  has  a  law-suit  going  on  now,  has  he  not  V  he 
obseiwed  after  a  little  pause. 

'  Oh,  yes,  there  is  almost  always  one  either  looming  in  the 
distance  or  actually  going  on.  I  don't  think  I  can  ever  re- 
member the  time  when  we  were  quite  free.  It  must  feel  very 
funny  to  have  no  woiries  of  that  kind.  I  think,  if  there  wasn't 
alvsays  this  great  load  of  debt  tied  round  our  necks  like  a  mill- 
stone, I  should  feel  almost  light  enough  to  fly !  And  then  it  is 
hard  to  read  in  some  of  those  horrid  religious  papers  that 
father  lives  an  eaaj^-going  life.  Did  you  see  a  dreadful  para- 
graph last  week  in  the  CJmrch  Chronicle  V 

'  Yes,  I  did,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  sadly. 

*  It  always  has  been  the  same,'  said  Erica.  '  Father  has  a 
delightful  story  about  an  old  gentleman  who  at  one  of  his 
lectures  accused  him  of  being  rich  and  self-indulgent — it  was  a 
great  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  father  was  nearly 
killing  himself  with  overwork — and  he  just  got  up  and  gave  the 
people  the  whole  history  of  his  day,  and  it  turned  out  that  he 
had  had  nothing  to  eat.  Mustn't  the  old  gentleman  have  felt 
delightfully  done  1  I  always  wonder  how  he  looked  when  he 
heard  about  it,  and  whether  after  that  he  believed  that  atheists 
are  not  necessarily  everything  that's  bad.' 

*  I  hope  such  days  as  those  are  over  for  ]\Ir.  Raeburn,'  said 
Charles  Osmond,  touched  both  by  the  anecdote  and  by  the 
loving  admiration  of  the  speaker. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Erica,  sadly.  '  It  has  been  getting 
steadily  worse  for  the  last  few  years  ;  we  have  had  to  give  up 
thing  after  thing.  Before  long  1  shouldn't  wonder  if  these 
rooms  in  what  father  calls  "  Persecution  Alley ;'  grew  too  ex- 
pensive for  us.  But,  after  all,  it  is  this  sort  of  thing  which 
makes  our  own  people  love  him  so  much,  don't  you  think  1' 

*  I  have  no  doubt  it  is,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  thoughtfully. 
And  then  for  a  minute  or  two  there  was  silence.     Erica, 


20  LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  FOIXT  OF  VIEW. 

having  finished  lier  toasting,  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  and 
Charles  Osmond  sat  watching  the  fair,  childish  face  which 
looked  lovelier  than  ever  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  firelight. 
"What  would  her  future  be,  he  wondered.  She  seemed  too 
delicate  and  sensitive  for  the  stormy  atmosphere  in  which  she 
lived.  Would  the  hard  life  embitter  her,  or  would  she  sink 
under  it  1  But  there  was^  a  certain  curve  of  resoluteness  about 
her  well-formed  chin  Avhich  was  sufficient  answer  to  the  second 
question,  while  he  could  not  but  think  that  the  best  safe-guard 
against  the  danger  of  bitterness  lay  in  her  very  evident  love 
and  loyalty  to  her  father. 

Erica  in  the  meantime  sat  stroking  her  cat  Friskarina,  and 
wondering  a  little  who  her  visitor  could  be.  She  liked  him 
very  much,  and  could  not  help  responding  to  the  bright  kindly 
eyes  which  seemed  to  plead  for  confidence  ;  though  he  was  such 
an  entire  stranger,  she  found  herself  quite  naturally  opening 
out  her  heart  to  him. 

'  I  am  to  take  notes  at  my  father's  meeting  to-night,'  she 
said,  breaking  the  silence,  '  and  perhaps  Avrite  the  account  of  it 
afterwards  too ;  and  there's  such  a  delightfully  funny  man 
coming  to  speak  on  the  other  side,' 

'  Mr.  Randolph,  is  it  not  V 

*Yes,  a  sort  of  male  Mrs.  Malaprop.  Oh,  such  fun!'  and 
at  the  remembrance  of  some  past  encounter,  Erica's  eyes 
positively  danced  with  laughter.  But  the  next  minute  she  was 
very  grave. 

'  I  came  to  speak  to  Mr.  Raeburn  aboiit  this  evening,'  said 
Charles  Osmond.  '  Do  you  know  if  he  has  heard  of  a  rumour 
that  this  Mr.  Randolph  has  hired  a  band  of  roughs  to  interrupt 
the  meeting  1' 

Erica  made  an  indignant  exclamation. 

'  Perhaps  that  was  what  the  telegram  was  about,'  she  con- 
tinued, after  a  moment's  thought.  '  We  found  it  here  when  we 
came  in.  Father  said  nothing,  but  went  out  very  quickly  to 
answer  it.  Oh  !  now  we  shall  have  a  dreadful  time  of  it,  I 
sui)pose,  and  perhaps  he'll  get  hurt  again.  I  did  hope  they  had 
given  up  that  sort  of  thing,' 

She  looked  so  troubled  that  Charles  Osmond  regretted  he 
liad  said  anything,  and  hastened  to  assure  her  that  what  he 
had  heard  was  the  merest  rumour,  and  very  possibly  not  true. 

*  I  am  afraid,'  she  said,  '  it  is  too  bad  not  to  be  true.' 

It  struck  Charles  Osmond  that  that  was  about  the  saddest 
little  sentence  he  had  ever  heard. 


LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW.  2i 

Partly  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  partly  from  real  in- 
terest, he  made  some  remark  about  a  lovely  little  picture,  the 
only  one  in  the  room ;  its  frame  was  lighted  up  by  the 
flickering  blaze,  and  even  in  the  imperfect  light  he  could  see 
that  the  subject  was  treated  in  no  ordinary  way.  It  was  a  little 
bit  of  the  Thames  far  away  from  London,  with  a  bank  of  many- 
tinted  trees  on  one  side,  and  out  beyond  a  range  of  low  hills, 
purple  in  the  evening  light.  In  the  sky  was  a  rosy  sunset 
glow,  melting  above  into  saffron  colour,  and  this  was  reflected 
in  the  water,  gilding  and  mellowing  the  foreground  of  sedge 
and  water-lilies.  But  what  made  the  picture  specially  charm- 
ing was  that  the  artist  had  really  cavight  the  peculiar  solemn 
stillness  of  evening ;  merely  to  look  at  that  quiet,  peaceful  river 
brought  a  feeling  of  hush  and  calmness.  It  seemed  a  strange 
picture  to  find  as  the  sole  ornament  in  the  study  of  a  man  who 
had  all  his  life  been  fighting  the  world. 

Erica  brightened  up  again,  and  seemed  to  forget  her  anxiety 
when  he  questioned  her  as  to  the  artist. 

'  There  is  such  a  nice  story  about  that  picture,'  she  said,  '  I 
always  like  to  look  at  it.  It  was  about  two  years  ago,  one  very 
cold  winter's  day,  and  a  woman  came  with  some  oil-paintings 
which  she  was  trying  to  sell  for  her  husband,  who  was  ill ;  he 
was  rather  a  good  artist,  but  had  been  in  bad  health  for  a  long 
time,  till  at  last  she  had  really  come  to  hawking  about  his 
pictures  in  this  way,  because  they  were  in  such  dreadfid  dis- 
tress. Father  was  ver}'-  much  AvoiTied  just  then,  there  was  a 
hoiTid  libel  case  going  on,  and  that  morning  he  was  very  busy, 
and  he  sent  the  woman  away  rather  sharply,  and  said  he  had  no 
time  to  listen  to  her.  Then  presently  he  was  vexed  Avith  him- 
self because  she  really  had  looked  in  great  trouble,  and  he 
thought  he  had  been  harsh,  and,  though  he  Avas  dreadfully 
pressed  for  time,  he  would  go  out  into  the  square  to  see  if  he 
couldn't  find  her  again.  I  went  with  him,  and  we  had  walked 
all  round  and  had  almost  given  her  up,  when  we  caught  sight 
of  her  coming  out  of  a  house  on  the  opposite  side.  And  then  it 
was  so  nice,  father  spoke  so  kindly  to  her,  and  found  out  more 
about  her  history,  and  said  that  he  was  too  poor  to  buy  her 
pictures ;  but  she  looked  dreadfully  tired  and  cold,  so  he  asked 
her  to  come  in  and  rest,  and  she  came  and  sat  by  the  fire,  and 
stayed  to  dinner  with  us,  and  we  looked  at  her  pictures,  be- 
cause she  seemed  so  proud  of  them  and  liked  us  to.  One  of 
them  was  that  little  river-scene,  which  father  took  a  great 
fancy  to,  and  praised  a  great  deal.     She  left  us  her  address, 


22  LIFE  PROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

and  later  on,  when  the  libel  case  was  ended,  and  father  had  got 
damages,  and  so  had  a  little  spare  money,  he  sent  some  to  this 
poor  artist,  and  they  were  so  grateful ;  though,  do  you  know,  I 
think  the  dinner  pleased  them  more  than  the  money,  and  they 
would  insist  on  sending  this  picture  to  father.  Ill  light  the 
gas,  and  then  you'll  see  it  better.' 

She  twisted  a  piece  of  paper  into  a  spill,  and  put  an  end  1  o 
the  gloaming.  Charles  Osmond  stood  up  to  get  a  nearer  view 
of  the  painting,  and  Erica,  too,  drew  nearer,  and  looked  at  it 
for  a  minute  in  silence. 

'  Father  took  mc  up  the  Thames  once,'  she  said,  by-and-by. 
'  It  was  so  lovely.  Some  day,  when  all  these  persecutions  are 
over,  we  are  going  to  have  a  beautiful  tour,  and  see  all  sorts 
of  places.     But  I  don't  know  when  they  will  be  over !     As 

soon  as  one  bigot ^'  she  broke  off  suddenly,  with  a  stifled 

exclamation  of  dismay. 

Charles  Osmond,  in  the  dim  light,  with  his  long  gray  beard, 
had  not  betrayed  his  clerical  dress ;  but,  glancing  round  at 
him  now,  she  saw  at  once  that  the  stranger  to  whom  she  had 
spoken  so  um-eservcdly  was  by  no  means  one  of  her  father's 
followers. 

'Well !'  he  said  smiling,  half  understanding  her  confusion, 

'You  are  a  clergyman  !'  she  almost  gasped. 

'Yes;  why  noti' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  never  thought — you  seemed  bo 
much  too ' 

'Too  what?'  urged  Charles  Osmond.  Then,  as  she  still 
hesitated,  '  Now,  you  must  really  let  me  hear  the  end  of  that 
sentence,  or  I  shall  imagine  everything  dreadful  !' 

'  Too  nice,'  murmured  Erica,  wishing  that  she  could  sink 
through  the  floor. 

But  the  confession  so  tickled  Charles  Osmond  that  he 
laughed  aloud,  and  his  laughter  was  so  infectious  that  Erica, 
in  spite  of  her  confusion,  could  not  help  joining  in  it.  She  had 
a  very  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  the  position  was,  undoubt- 
edly, a  laughable  one  ;  still  there  were  certain  appalling  recol- 
lections of  the  past  conversation  which  soon  made  her  serious 
again.  She  had  talked  of  pei-secutions  to  one  nho  was  at  any 
rate,  on  the  side  of  persecutors ;  had  alluded  to  bigot?, 
and,  worst  of  all  had  sjwken  in  no  measured  terms  of  'tiresome 
Christians.' 

She  turned,  rather  shyly,  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  dignity, 
to  her  visitor,  and  said, 


LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW.  23 

*  It  was  veiy  careless  of  me  not  to  notice  more  ;  but  it  was 
dark,  and  I  am  not  used  to  seeing  any  but  our  own  people 
here.  I  am  afraid  I  said  things  which  must  have  hurt  you ; 
I  wish  you  had  stopped  me.' 

The  beautiful  colour  had  spread  and  deepened  in  her 
cheeks,  and  there  was  something  indescribably  sweet  and  con- 
siderate in  her  tone  of  apology.  Charles  Osmond  was  touched 
by  it. 

'  It  is  I  who  should  apologise,'  he  said.  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  I  was  justified  in  sitting  there  quietly,  knowing  that 
you  were  under  a  delusion  ;  but  it  is  always  very  delightful  to 
me  in  this  artificial  world  to  meet  any  one  who  talks  quite 
naturally,  and  the  interest  of  hearing  your  view  of  the  question 
kept  me  silent.  You  must  forgive  me,  and  as  you  know  I  am 
too  nice  to  be  a  clergyman ' 

*  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  How  rude  I  have  been,'  cried 
Erica,  blushing  anew ;  '  but  you  did  make  me  say  it.' 

'  Of  course  ;  and  I  take  it  as  a  high  compliment  from  you,' 
said  Charles  Osmond,  laughing  again  at  the  recollection. 
'  Come,  may  we  not  seal  our  friendship  1  We  have  been  suf- 
ficiently frank  with  each  other  to  be  something  more  than 
acquaintances  for  the  future.' 

Erica  held  out  her  hand  and  found  it  taken  in  a  strong,  firm 
clasp,  which  somehow  conveyed  much  more  than  an  ordinary 
hand-shake. 

'  And  after  all,  you  are  too  nice  for  a  clergyman  ! '  she 
thought  to  herself.  Then,  as  a  fresh  idea  crossed  her  mind, 
she  suddenly  exclaimed,  '  But  you  came  to  tell  us  about  Mr. 
Randolph's  roughs,  did  you  not  ?  How  came  you  to  care  that 
we  should  know  beforehand  f 

'  Why,  naturally,  I  hoped  that  a  disturbance  might  be 
stopped.' 

'  Is  it  natural?'  questioned  Erica.  '  I  should  have  thought 
it  more  natural  for  you  to  think  with  your  own  party.' 

'But  peace  and  justice  and  freedom  of  speech  must  all 
stand  before  party  questions.' 

'  Yet  you  think  that  we  are  wrong,  and  that  Christianity 
is  right  f 

'Yes;  but  to  my  mind  perfect  justice  is  part  of  Christianity.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Erica,  in  a  tone  which  meant  unutterable  things. 

'  You  think  that  Christians  do  not  show  perfect  justice  to 
youl'  said  Charles  Osmond,  reading  her  thouglits. 

'  I  can't  say  I  think  they  do,'  she  replied.     Then,  suddenly 


24  LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POIXT  OF  VIEW. 

firing  \ip  at  the  recollection  of  her  aftcraoon's  expeiiences, 
she  said,  'They  are  not  just  to  us,  though  they  preach  justice; 
they  are  not  loving,  tliough  they  talk  about  love  !  If  they 
\vant  us  to  think  their  religion  true,  I  wonder  they  don't 
practise  it  a  little  more  and  preach  it  less.  What  is  the  use 
uf  talking  of  "brotherly  kindness  and  charity,"  Avhen  they 
hardly  treat  us  like  human  beings ;  -when  they  make  up  wicked 
lies  about  us,  and  will  hardly  let  us  sit  in  the  same  room  with 
them  !' 

*  Come,  now,  we  really  are  sitting  in  the  same  room,'  said 
Charles  Osmond,  smiling. 

'  Oh,  dear,  what  am  I  to  do  ! '  exclaimed  Erica.  *  I  can't 
remember  that  you  are  one  of  them !  you  are  so  veiy  unlike 
most.' 

'I  think,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  'you  have  come  across 
some  very  bad  specimens.' 

Erica  in  her  heart  considered  her  visitor  as  the  exception 
which  proved  the  nile ;  but,  not  wishing  to  be  caught  tripping 
again,  she  resolved  to  say  no  more  upon  the  subject. 

'  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,'  she  said. 

'Something  nicer  T  said  Charles  Osmond,  with  a  little 
mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

'  Safer,'  said  Ei'ica,  laughing.  '  But  stop,  I  hear  my 
father.' 

She  went  out  into  the  passage  to  meet  him.  Charles 
Osmond  heard  her  explaining  his  visit  and  the  news  he  had 
brought,  heard  Kaeburn's  brief  responses  ;  then,  in  a  few  mo- 
ments, the  two  entered  the  room,  a  picturesque-looking  couple, 
the  clergyman  thought :  the  tall,  stately  man,  with  his  broad 
forehead  and  overshadowing  masses  of  aubvu'n  hair  ;  the  little, 
eager-faced,  impetuous  girl,  so  Avinsome  in  her  unconventional 
frankness. 

The  conversation  became  a  trifle  more  ceremonious,  though 
with  Erica  perched  on  the  arm  of  her  father's  chair,  ready  to 
squeeze  his  hand  at  every  word  which  pleased  her,  it  could 
hardly  become  stiff.  Kacburn  had  just  heard  the  report  of 
Mr.  Itandolpli's  scheme,  and  liad  already  taken  })recautionaiy 
measures  ;  but  he  was  surprised  and  gratified  that  Charles 
Osmond  should  liave  troubled  to  bring  him  word  about  it.  The 
two  men  talked  on  with  tlie  most  perfect  friendliness  ;  and 
by-and-by,  to  Erica's  great  delight,  Charles  Osmond  expressed 
a  uisli  to  be  present  at  the  meeting  that  uight,  and  made 
inquiries  ua  to  the  time  and  place. 


LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POIXT  OF  VIEW.  25 

'  Oh,  couldn't  you  stay  to  tea  and  go  with  us  1 '  she  ex- 
daimed,  forgetting  for  the  third  time  that  he  was  a  clergyman, 
and  oifering  the  ready  hospitality  she  would  have  oflbred  to 
any  one  else. 

'  I  should  be  delighted,'  he  said,  smiling,  '  if  you  can  really 
put  up  with  one  of  the  cloth.' 

Raebum,  amused  at  his  daughter's  spontaneous  hospitality, 
iuid  pleased  with  the  friendly  acceptance  it  had  met  with,  was 
quite  ready  to  second  the  invitation.  Erica  was  delighted  ; 
she  carried  off  the  cat  and  the  toast  into  the  next  room,  eager 
to  tell  her  mother  all  about  the  visitor. 

'  The  most  delightful  man,  mother ;  not  a  bit  like  a  clergy- 
man !  I  didn't  find  out  for  ever  so  long  what  he  was,  and  said 
all  sorts  of  dreadful  things ;  but  he  didn't  mind,  and  was  not 
the  least  offended.' 

'  When  will  you  leani  to  be  cautious,  I  wonder,'  said  Mrs. 
Raeburn,  smiling.     *  You  are  a  shocking  little  chatterbox.' 

And  as  Erica  flitted  busily  about,  arranging  the  tea-table, 
her  mother  watched  her  half  amusedly,  half  anxiously.  She 
had  always  been  remarkably  frank  and  outspoken,  and  there 
was  something  so  transparently  sincere  about  her,  that  she 
seldom  gave  offence.  But  the  mother  coxild  not  help  wondering 
how  it  would  be  as  she  grew  older,  and  mixed  with  a  greater 
variety  of  people.  In  fact,  in  every  way  she  was  anxious 
about  the  child's  future,  for  Erica's  was  a  somewhat  perplexing 
character,  and  seemed  very  ill-fitted  for  her  position. 

Eric  Haeberlein  had  once  compared  her  to  a  violin,  and 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  his  idea.  She  was  very  sen- 
sitive, responding  at  once  to  the  merest  touch,  and  easily 
moved  to  admiration  and  devoted  love,  or  to  strong  indig- 
nation. Naturally  high-spirited,  she  was  subject,  too,  to  fits 
of  depression,  and  was  always  either  in  the  heights  or  the 
depths.  Yet  with  all  these  characteristics  was  blended  her 
father's  indomitable  courage  and  tenacity.  Though  feeling  the 
thorns  of  life  far  more  keenly  than  most  people,  she  was  one  of 
those  who  will  never  yield ;  though  pricked  and  wounded  by 
outward  events,  she  wovild  never  be  conquei'ed  by  circumstance. 
At  present  her  capabilities  for  adoration,  which  were  very 
great,  were  lavished  in  two  directions  ;  in  the  abstract  she  wor- 
shipped intellect,  in  the  concrete  she  woi'shippcd  her  father. 

From  the  grief  and  indignation  of  the  afternoon,  she  had 
passed  with  extraordinary  rapidity  to  a  state  of  meiTiment, 
which  would  have  been  incomprehensible  to  one  who  did  not 


26  LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OP  VIEW. 

understand  her  peculiarly  complex  character.  Mrs.  Raebum 
listened  with  a  good  deal  of  amusement  to  her  racy  description 
of  Charles  Osmond. 

'  Strange  that  this  should  have  happened  so  soon  after  our 
talk  this  afternoon,'  she  said,  musingly.  *  Perhaps  it  is  as  -well 
that  you  should  have  a  glimpse  of  the  other  side,  against  which 
you  -were  inveighing,  or  you  might  be  growing  narrow.' 

'  He  is  much  too  good  to  belong  to  them ! '  said  Erica, 
enthusiastically. 

As  she  spoke,  Raebum  entered,  bringing  the  visitor  witli 
him,  and  they  all  sat  down  to  their  meal,  Erica  pouring  out  tea 
and  attending  to  every  one's  wants,  fondling  her  cat,  and 
listening  to  the  conversation,  with  all  the  time  a  curious  per- 
ception that  to  sit  down  to  table  with  one  of  her  father's  op- 
ponents Avas  a  very  novel  experience.  She  could  not  help  specu- 
lating as  to  the  thoughts  and  impressions  of  her  companions. 
Her  mother  was,  she  tliought,  pleased  and  interested,  for  about 
her  worn  face  there  was  the  look  of  contentment  which  in- 
variably came  when  for  a  time  the  bitterness  of  the  struggle 
of  life  was  broken  by  any  sign  of  friendliness.  Her  father  was 
— as  he  generally  was  in  his  own  house — quiet,  gentle  in 
manner,  ready  to  be  both  an  attentive  and  an  interested 
listener.  This  gift  he  had  almost  as  markedly  as  the  gift  of 
speech  ;  he  at  once  perceived  that  his  guest  was  no  ordinary 
man,  and  by  a  sort  of  instinct  he  had  discovered  on  Avhat  sub- 
jects he  was  best  calculated  to  ^peak,  and  wherein  they  could 
gain  most  from  him.  Charles  Osmond's  thoughts  she  could 
only  speculate  about ;  but  that  he  was  ready  to  take  them  all 
as  friends,  and  did  not  regard  them  as  a  different  order  of 
being,  was  plain. 

The  conversation  had  drifted  into  regions  of  abstruse 
science,  when  Erica,  who  had  been  listening  attentively,  was 
altogether  diverted  by  the  entrance  of  the  servant,  who  brought 
her  a  brown-paper  parcel.  Eagerly  opening  it,  she  was  almost 
bewildered  by  the  delightful  surprise  of  finding  a  complete 
edition  of  Longfellow's  poems,  bound  in  dark-blue  morocco. 
Inside  was  written,  'From  another  admirer  of  "Hiawatha."' 

She  started  \ip  with  a  rapturous  exclamation,  and  the  two 
men  paused  in  their  talk,  each  unable  to  help  watching  the 
beautiful  little  face  all  aglow  with  happiness.  Erica  almost 
danced  romid  the  room  Avith  her  new  treasure. 

'  What  heavenly  person  can  have  sent  me  this  1 '  she  cried. 
'  Look,  father  !     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  beauty  ? ' 


LIFE  FROM  ANOTHER  POINT  OF  VIEW.  27 

Science  went  to  the  winds,  and  Raebvirn  gave  all  his  sjm- 
patliy  to  Erica  and  Longfellow. 

'  The  very  thing  you  were  wishing  for  !  Who  could  have 
sent  itr 

*  I  can't  think  !  It  can't  be  Tom,  because  I  know  he's 
spent  all  his  money,  and  Auntie  would  never  call  herself  an 
admirer  of  "  Hiawatha,"  nor  Herr  Haeberlein,  nor  Monsieur 
Noirol,  nor  any  one  I  can  think  of.' 

'  Dealings  with  the  fairies,'  said  Raeburn,  smiling.  '  Your 
beggar-child  with  the  scones  suddenly  transformed  into  a 
beneficent   rewarder.' 

'  Not  from  you,  father  ? ' 

Raeburn  laughed. 

'  A  pretty  substantial  fairy  for  yoTi  !  No,  no,  I  had  no 
hand  in  it.  I  can't  give  you  presents  while  I  am  in  debt,  my  bairn.' 

'  Oh,  isn't  it  jolly  to  get  what  one  wants  ! '  said  Erica,  with  a 
fervour  which  made  the  three  grown-up  people  laugh. 

'  Very  jolly,'  said  Raeburn,  giving  her  a  little  mute  caress. 
'  But  now,  Eric,  please  to  go  back  and  eat  something,  or  I  shall 
have  my  reporter  fainting  in  the  middle  cf  a  speech.' 

She  obeyed,  carrying  away  the  book  with  her,  and  enli- 
vening them  with  extracts  from  it ;  once  delightedly  dis- 
covering  a  most   appropriate   passage. 

'  Why,  of  course  ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  you  and  Mr.  Osmond, 
father,  are  smoking  the  Peace-Pipe ! '  And  with  much  force 
and  animation  she  read  them  bits  from  the  first  canto. 

Raeburn  left  the  room  before  long  to  get  ready  for  his 
meeting ;  but  Erica  still  lingered  over  her  new  treasure,  putting 
it  down  at  length  with  great  reluctance  to  prepare  her  note- 
book and  sharpen  her  pencil. 

*  Isn't  that  a  delightful  bit  where  Hiawatha  was  angry,'  she 
said  ;  '  it  has  been  running  in  my  head  all  day — 

"For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was." 

That's  what  I  shall  feel  like  to-night  when  Mr.  Randolph 
attacks  father.' 

She  ran  upstairs  to  dress,  and,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her, 
Mrs.  Raeburn  turned  to  Charles  Osmond  with  a  sort  of  apology. 

'  She  finds  it  very  hard  not  to  speak  out  her  thoughts ;  it 
will  often  get  her  into  trouble,  I  am  afraid.' 

'  It  is  too  fresh  and  delightful  to  be  checked  though,'  said 
Charles  Osmond ;  *  I  assure  you  she  has  taught  me  many  a 
lesson  to-night.' 


28  '  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  ' 

The  mother  talked  on  almost  unreservcdlj  about  the  sub- 
ject that  was  evidently  nearest  her  heart — the  difficulties  of 
Erica's  education,  the  harshucss  they  so  often  met  vith,  the 
harm  it  so  evidently  did  the  child — till  the  subject  of  the  con- 
versation came  down  again,  much  too  excited  and  happy  to  care 
just  then  for  any  unkind  treatment.  Had  she  not  got  a  Long- 
fellow of  her  very  own,  and  did  not  that  unexpected  pleasure 
make  up  for  a  thousand  privations  and  discomforts  1 

Yet,  with  all  her  childishness  and  impetuosity,  Erica  was 
womanly  too,  as  Charles  Osmond  saw  by  the  way  she  waited  on 
her  mother,  thinking  of  everything  which  the  invalid  could 
possibly  want  while  they  were  gone,  brightening  the  Avhole 
place  with  her  sunshiny  presence.  Whatever  else  was  lacking, 
there  was  no  lack  of  love  in  this  house.  The  tender  consider- 
atcness  which  softened  Erica's  impetuosity  in  her  mother's 
presence,  the  loving  comprehension  between  parent  and  child, 
was  very  beautiful  to  see. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

*  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  ' 

A  man  who  striveg  earnestly  and  persevcringly  to  convince  others,  at 
least  convinces  us  that  he  is  convinced  himself. 

Guesses  at  Truth. 

The  rainy  afternoon  had  given  place  to  a  fine  and  starlight 
night.  Erica,  apparently  in  high  spirits,  walked  between  her 
father  and  Charles  Osmond. 

'  Mother  won't  be  anxious  about  us,'  she  said.  '  She  has 
not  heard  a  word  about  Mr.  llandolph's  plans.  I  was  so  afraid 
some  one  would  speak  about  it  at  tea-time,  and  then  she  would 
liavc  been  iu  a  fright  all  the  evLiiing,  and  would  not  have  liked 
my  g<jing.' 

'  Mr.  Randolph  is  both  energetic  and  unscrupulous,'  said 
Racburn.  '  But  1  doubt  if  even  he  would  set  his  roughs  upon 
yon,  little  one,  imless  he  has  become  as  bloodthirsty  as  a 
certain  old  Scotch  psalm  we  used   to  sing.' 

*  What  was  that  "i '  questioned  Erica. 


'  SCPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  '  29 

'  I  forget  the  beginning,  but  the  last  verse  always  had  a  sort 
of  hori-ible  fascination  for  us — 

"  How  happy  should  that  trooper  be 
WTio,  riding  on  a  naggie, 
Should  take  thy  little  children  up, 
And  dash  them  'gin  the  craggie  1 " ' 

Charles  Osmond  and  Erica  laughed  heartily. 

'  They  -will  only  dash  you  against  metaphorical  rocks  in  the 
nineteenth  century,'  continued  Eaeburn.  '  I  remember  wonder- 
ing why  the  old  clerk  in  my  father's  church  always  sang  that 
verse  so  lustily ;  but  you  see  we  have  exactly  the  same  spirit 
now,  only  in  a  more  civilised  form,  barbarity  changed  to  polite ' 
cruelty,  as  for  instance  the  way  you  were  treated  this  after- 
noon.' 

'Oh,  don't  talk  about  that,'  said  Erica,  quickly,  'I  am 
going  to  enjoy  my  Longfellow  and  forget  the  rest.' 

In  truth,  Charles  Osmond  was  struck  with  this  both  in  the 
father  and  daughter  ;  each  had  a  way  of  putting  back  their 
bitter  thoughts,  of  dwelling  whenever  it  was  possible  on  the 
brighter  side  of  life.  He  knew  that  Raeburn  w^as  involved  in 
most  harassing  litigation,  was  burdened  with  debt,  was  con- 
fronted everywhere  with  bitter  and  often  violent  opposition ; 
yet  he  seemed  to  live  above  it  all,  for  there  was  a  wonderful 
repose  about  him,  an  extraordinary  serenity  in  his  aspect, 
which  would  have  seemed  better  fitted  to  a  hermit  than  to  one 
who  had  spent  his  life  in  fighting  against  desperate  odds.  One 
thing  was  quite  clear,  the  man  was  absolutely  convinced  that 
he  was  suffering  for  the  truth,  and  was  ready  to  endiu'e  any- 
thing in  what  he  considered  the  service  of  his  fellow-men.  He 
did  not  seem  particularly  anxious  as  to  the  evening's  proceed- 
ings. On  the  whole,  they  were  rather  a  merry  party  as  they 
walked  along  Gower  Street  to  the  station. 

But  when  they  got  out  again  at  their  destination,  and 
walked  throxigh  the  busy  streets  to  the  hall  where  the  lecture 
was  to  be  given,  a  sort  of  seriousness  fell  upon  all  three.  They 
were  each  going  to  w'ork  in  their  different  ways  for  what  they 
considered  the  good  of  humanity,  and  instinctively  a  silence 
grew  and  deepened. 

Erica  was  the  first  to  break  it  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
hall. 

'  What  a  crowd  there  is ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  Are  these  Mr. 
Randolph's  roughs]' 


30  *  surrosiNG  it  is  true  ! ' 

*  We  can  put  up  with  them  outside,'  said  Raebum ;  but 
Charles  Osmond  noticed  that  as  he  spoke  ho  drew  the  child 
nearer  to  him,  with  a  momentary  look  of  trouble  in  his  face,  as 
though  he  shrank  from  taking  her  through  the  ral)ble.  Erica, 
on  the  other  baud,  looked  interested  and  perfectly  fearless. 
"NVith  great  difficulty  they  forced  their  Avay  on,  hooted  and 
yelled  at  by  the  mob,  who,  however,  made  no  attempt  at 
violence.  At  length,  reaching  the  shelter  of  the  entrance 
lobby,  Kacburn  left  them  for  a  moment,  pausing  to  give  direc- 
tions to  the  doorkeepers.  Just  then,  to  his  great  surprise, 
Charles  Osmond  caught  sight  of  his  son  standing  only  a  few 
paces  from  them.  His  exclamation  of  astonishment  made 
Erica  look  up.     Brian  came  forward  eagerly  to  meet  them. 

'  You  here ! '  exclaimed  his  father,  with  a  latent  suspicion 
con6nned  into  a  certainty.      '  This  is  my  son.  Miss  Raeburn,' 

Brian  had  not  dreamed  of  meeting  her,  he  had  waited  about 
curious  to  see  how  llaebum  would  get  on  with  the  mob ;  it 
was  with  a  strange  pang  of  rapture  and  dismay  that  he  had 
seen  his  fair  little  ideal.  That  she  should  be  in  the  midst  of 
that  hooting  mob  made  his  heart  throb  with  indignation,  yet 
there  was  something  so  sweet  in  her  grave  steadfast  face  that 
he  was,  nevertheless,  glad  to  have  witnessed  the  scene.  Her 
colour  was  rather  heightened,  her  eyes  bright  but  very  quiet, 
yet  as  Charles  Osmond  spoke,  and  she  looked  at  Brian,  her  face 
all  at  once  lighted  up,  and  with  an  irresistible  smile  she  ex- 
claimed, in  the  most  childlike  of  voices, 

*  Why,  it's  my  umbrella  man  ! '  The  informality  of  the 
exclamation  seemed  to  make  them  at  once  something  more 
than  ordinary  acquaintances.  They  told  Charles  Osmond  of 
their  encounter  in  the  afternoon,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes 
Brian,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  Avas  not  in  some  strange 
dream,  found  himself  sitting  with  his  father  and  Erica  in  a 
crowded  lecture  hall,  realising  with  an  intensity  of  joy  and  an 
intensity  of  pain  how  near  he  was  to  the  queen  of  his  heart  and 
yet  how  far  from  her. 

The  meeting  was  quite  orderly.  Though  Raeburn  was 
addressing  many  who  disagreed  with  him,  he  liad  evidently  got 
the  whole  and  undivided  attention  of  his  audience  ;  and  indeed 
his  gifts  both  as  rhetorician  and  orator  were  so  great  that  tliey 
nuist  have  been  either  wilfully  deaf  or  obtuse  who,  when  under 
tlie  spell  of  his  extraordinary  earnestness  and  eloquence,  could 
resist  listening.  Not  a  word  was  lost  on  Brian  ;  every  sentence 
which  emphasised  the  great  difference  of  belief  between  himself 


'  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  ! '  31 

and  his  love  seemed  to  engrave  itself  on  his  heart ;  no  minutest 
detail  of  that  evening  escaped  him. 

He  saw  the  tall,  commanding  figure  of  the  orator,  the  vast 
sea  of  upturned  faces  below,  the  eager  attention  imprinted  on 
all,  sometimes  a  wave  of  sympathy  and  approval  sweeping  over 
them,  resulting  in  a  storm  of  applause,  at  times  a  more  divided 
disapproval,  or  a  shout  of  '  No,  no,'  which  invariably  roused  the 
speaker  to  a  more  vigorous,  clear,  and  emphatic  repetition  of 
the  questioned  statement.  And,  through  all,  he  was  ever  con- 
scious of  the  young  girl  at  his  side,  who,  with  her  head  bent 
over  her  note-book,  was  absorbed  in  her  work.  While  the  most 
vital  questions  of  life  were  being  discussed,  he  was  yet  always 
aware  of  that  hand  travelling  rapidly  to  and  fro,  of  the  pages 
hurriedly  turned,  of  the  quick  yet  weary  looking  change  of 
posture. 

Though  not  without  a  strong  vein  of  sarcasm,  Kaebum's 
speech  was,  on  the  whole,  temperate ;  it  certainly  should  have 
been  met  with  consideration.  But,  unfortunately,  Mr.  Ean- 
dolph  was  incapable  of  seeing  any  good  in  his  opponent ;  his 
combative  instincts  were  far  stronger  than  his  Christianity,  and 
Brian,  who  had  winced  many  times  while  listening  to  the 
champion  of  atheism,  was  even  more  keenly  wounded  by  the 
champion  of  his  own  cause.  Abusive  epithets  abounded  in  his 
retort ;  at  last  he  left  the  subject  under  discussion  altogether, 
and  launched  into  personalities  of  the  most  objectionable  kind, 
llaeburn  sat  with  folded  arms,  listening  with  a  sort  of  cold 
dignity.  He  looked  very  diftierent  now  from  the  genial- 
mannered,  quiet  man  whom  Charles  Osmond  had  seen  in  his 
own  home  but  an  hour  or  two  ago.  There  was  a  peculiar 
look  in  his  tawny  eyes  hardly  to  be  described  in  words,  a  look 
which  was  hard,  and  cold,  and  steady.  It  told  of  an  originally 
sensitive  nature,  inured  to  ill-treatment ;  of  a  strong  will  which 
had  long  ago  steeled  itself  to  endure ;  of  a  character  which, 
though  absolutely  refusing  to  yield  to  opposition,  had  growm 
slightly  bitter,  even  slightly  vindictive  in  the  process. 

Brian  could  only  watch  in  silent  pain  the  little  figure  beside 
him.  Once  at  some  violent  term  of  abuse  she  looked  up,  and 
glanced  for  a  moment  at  the  speaker ;  he  just  caught  a  swift, 
indignant  flash  from  her  bright  eyes,  then  her  head  was  bent 
lower  than  before  over  her  note-book,  and  the  carnation 
deepened  in  her  cheek,  whilst  her  pencil  sped  over  the  paper 
fast  and  furiously.  Presently  came  a  sharp  retort  from  Rae- 
bum,  ending  with  the  perfectly  waiTantable  accusation  that  Mr. 


32  '  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  ! ' 

Randolph  was  wandering  from  the  subject  of  the  evening  merely 
to  indulge  his  personal  spite.  The  audience  was  beginning  to 
be  roused  by  the  unfairness,  and  a  storm  might,  have  ensued 
had  not  Mr.  Randolph  unintentionally  turned  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings from  tragedy  to  farce. 

Indignant  at  Raeburn's  accusation,  he  sprang  to  his  foet  and 
began  a  vigorous  protest, 

'  Mr.  Chairman,  I  denounce  my  opponent  as  a  liar.  His 
accusation  is  utterly  false.  I  deny  the  allegation,  and  I  scorn 
tlie  allegator ! ' 

He  was  inteiTupted  by  a  shout  of  laughter,  the  whole 
a^;scmbly  was  convulsed,  even  Erica's  anger  changed  to  mirth. 

'  Fit  for  Flinch,'  she  whispered  to  Brian,  her  face  all  beaming 
with  meri'iment. 

Raeburn,  whose  grave  face  had  also  relaxed  into  a  smile, 
suddenly  stood  up,  and,  Avith  a  sort  of  dry  Scotch  humour, 
remai'ked, 

*  My  enemies  have  compared  mo  to  many  obnoxious  things, 
but  never  till  to-night  have  I  been  called  a  crocodile  !  Possibly 
Mr.  Randolph  has  been  reading  of  the  crocodiles  recently  dis- 
sected at  Paris.  It  has  been  discovered  that  they  are  almost 
brainless,  and,  being  without  reason,  are  probably  animated  by 
a  violent  instinct  of  destruction.  I  believe,  however,  that  the 
power  of  their  "jaw"  is  unsurpassed  ! ' 

Then,  amidst  shouts  of  laughter  and  applause,  ho  sat  do\ATi 
again,  leaving  the  field  to  the  much  discomfited  ^Mr.  Randolph. 

Much  harm  had  been  done  that  evening  to  the  cause  of 
Cliristianity.  The  sympathies  of  the  audience  could  not  be 
witli  the  weak  and  unmannerly  Mr.  Randolph ;  they  were 
Englishmen,  and  were,  of  course,  inclined  to  side  with  the  man 
who  had  been  unjustly  dealt  with,  who,  moreover,  had  really 
spoken  to  them — had  touched  their  very  hearts. 

The  field  was  practically  lost  when,  to  the  surpi-ise  of  all, 
another  speaker  came  forward.  Erica,  who  knew  that  their 
side  had  had  the  best  of  it,  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration  when  she 
saw  Charles  Osmond  move  slowly  to  the  front  of  the  platform. 
She  w;vs  very  tired,  but  out  of  a  sort  of  gratitude  for  his  friend- 
liness, a  readiness  to  do  him  honour,  she  strained  her  energies 
to  take  down  his  speech  verliatim.  It  was  not  a  long  one,  it 
was  hardly,  perhaps,  to  be  called  a  speech  at  all,  it  was  rather 
as  if  the  man  liad  thrown  his  very  self  into  the  breach  made  by 
tiio  unhap[)y  wrangle  of  the  evening. 

lie  spolio  of  the  universal  brotherhood  and  of  the  wrong 


*  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  '  S3 

done  to  it  by  bitterness  and  strife  ;  he  stood  there  as  the  very 
incarnation  of  brotlaerliness,  and  the  people,  whether  they 
agreed  with  liim  or  not,  loved  him.  In  the  place  where  the 
religion  of  Christ  had  been  reviled  as  well  by  the  Christian  as 
by  the  atheist,  he  spoke  of  the  revealer  of  the  Father,  and  a 
hush  fell  on  the  listening  men  ;  he  spoke  of  the  Founder  of  the 
great  brotherhood,  and  by  the  very  reality,  by  the  fervour  of 
his  convictions,  touched  a  new  chord  in  many  a  heart.  It  was 
no  time  for  argument,  the  meeting  was  almost  over ;  he 
scarcely  attempted  an  answer  to  many  of  the  difficulties  and 
objections  raised  by  Ilaebum  earlier  in  the  evening.  But  there 
was  in  his  ten-minutes'  speech  the  whole  essence  of  Christianity, 
the  spirit  of  loving  sacrihce  of  self,  the  strength  of  an  absolute 
certainty  which  no  argument,  however  logical,  can  shake,  the 
extraordinary  power  which  breathes  in  the  assertion,  '  I  know 
Him  whom  I  have  believed.' 

To  more  than  one  of  Raebum's  followers  there  came  just 
the  slightest  agitation  of  doubt,  the  questioning  whether  these 
things  might  not  be.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  question 
began  to  stir  in  Erica's  heart.  She  had  heard  many  advocates 
of  Christianity,  and  had  regarded  them  much  as  we  might 
regard  Buddhist  missionaries  speaking  of  a  religion  that  had 
had  its  day  and  was  now  only  fit  to  be  discarded,  or  perhaps 
studied  as  an  interesting  relic  of  the  past,  about  which  in  its 
later  yeai'S  many  conniptions  had  gathered. 

Raebum,  being  above  all  things  a  just  man,  had  been 
determined  to  give  her  mind  no  bias  in  favour  of  his  own  views, 
and  as  a  child  he  had  left  her  perfectly  free.  But  there  was  a 
certain  Scotch  proverb  which  he  did  not  call  to  mind,  that  '  As 
the  auld  cock  crows,  the  young  cock  learns,'  When  the  time 
came  at  which  he  considered  her  old  enough  really  to  study 
the  Bible  for  herself,  she  had  already  learnt  from  bitter  ex- 
perience that  Christianity — at  any  rate,  what  called  itself 
Christianity — was  the  religion  whose  votaries  were  constantly 
slandering  and  ill-treating  her  father,  and  that  all  the  priva- 
tions and  troubles  of  their  life  were  directly  or  indirectly  due 
to  it.  She,  of  coui'sc,  identified  the  conduct  of  the  most  un- 
friendly and  persecuting  with  the  religion  itself;  it  could 
hardly  be  otherwise. 

But  to-night  as  she  toiled  away  bravely  acting  up  to  her 
liglits,  taking  down  the  opponent's  speech  to  the  best  of  her 
abilities,  though  pi'cdisposed  to  think  it  all  a  meaningless 
rhapsody,  the  faintest   attempt  at  a  question  began  to  take 


34  '  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  ! ' 

shape  in  her  mind.  It  did  not  form  itself  exactly  into  words, 
but  just  lurked  there  like  a  cloud-shadow, — *  supposing  Christ- 
iauit}'  were  true  1 ' 

AH  doubt  is  pain.  Even  this  faint  beginning  of  doubt  in 
her  creed  made  Erica  dreadfully  uncomfortable.  Yet  she 
could  not  regret  that  Cliarles  Osmond  had  spoken,  even  though 
she  imagined  him  to  be  greatly  mistaken,  and  feared  that  that 
uncomfortable  question  might  have  been  suggested  to  others 
among  the  audience.  She  could  not  wish  that  the  speech  had 
not  been  made,  for  it  had  revealed  the  nobility  of  the  man,  his 
broad -hearted  love,  and  she  instinctively  reverenced  all  the 
really  great  and  good,  however  Avidely  different  their  creeds. 

Brian  tried  in  vain  to  read  her  thoughts ;  bjit  as  soon  as 
the  meeting  was  over  her  temporary  seriousness  vanished,  and 
she  was  once  more  almost  a  cliild  again,  ready  to  be  amused  by 
anj'thing.  She  stood  for  a  few  minutes  talking  to  the  two 
Osmonds  ;  then,  catching  sight  of  an  acquaintance  a  little  way 
off,  she  bade  them  a  hasty  good-night,  much  to  Brian's  chagrin, 
and  hurried  forward  with  a  warmth  of  greeting  which  he  could 
only  hope  was  appreciated  by  the  thick-set,  honest-looking 
mechanic  who  was  the  happy  recipient.  When  they  left  the 
hall,  she  was  still  deep  in  conversation  with  him. 

Tlie  fates  were  kind,  however,  to  Brian  that  day ;  they 
were  just  too  late  for  a  train,  and  before  the  next  one  arrived, 
Raeburn  and  Erica  were  seen  slowly  coming  down  the  steps, 
and  in  another  minute  had  joined  them  on  the  platform. 
Charles  Osmond  and  Raeburn  fell  into  an  amicable  discussion, 
and  Brian,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  was  left  to  an  uninterrupted 
tete-a-tete  with  Erica.  There  had  been  no  further  demonstration 
by  the  crowd,  and  Erica,  now  tliat  the  anxiety  was  over,  was 
ready  to  make  fun  of  Mr.  Randolph  and  his  band,  checking 
herself  every  now  and  then  for  fear  of  hurting  her  companion, 
but  breaking  forth  again  and  again  into  irresistible  merriment 
as  she  recalled  tlie  '  alligator '  incident  and  other  grotesque 
utterances.  All  too  soon  they  reached  their  destination. 
There  was  still,  however,  a  ten  minutes'  walk  before  them,  a 
walk  which  Brian  never  forgot.  The  wind  was  high,  and  it 
seemed  to  excite  Erica  ;  he  could  always  remember  exactly  how 
she  looked,  her  eyes  bright  and  shining,  her  short,  auburn  hair 
all  blown  about  by  the  wind,  one  stray  wave  lying  across  the 
quaint  little  seal-skin  hat.  lie  remembered  too,  how,  in  the 
middle  of  his  argument,  Raeburn  had  stepped  forward  and  had 
wrapped  a  white   woollen  scarf  more  closely  round  the  child, 


*  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  ! '  35 

securing  the  fluttering  ends.  Brian  would  have  hked  to  do  it 
himself  had  he  dr.red,  and  yet  it  pleased  him,  too,  to  see  the 
father's  thoughtfulness  ;  perhaps,  in  that  '  touch  of  nature,'  he, 
for  the  first  time,  fully  recognised  his  kinship  with  the  atheist. 

Erica  talked  to  him  in  the  meantime  with  a  delicious,  child- 
like frankness,  gave  him  an  enthusiastic  account  of  her  friend 
Hazeldine,  the  working-man  whom  he  had  seen  her  speaking  to, 
and  unconsciously  revealed  in  her  free  conversation  a  great  deal 
of  the  life  she  led,  a  busy,  earnest,  self-denying  life  Brian  could 
see.  When  they  reached  the  place  of  their  afternoon's  en- 
counter, she  alluded  merrily  to  what  she  called  the  *  charge  of 
umbrellas.' 

'  Who  would  have  thought,  now,  that  in  a  few  hours'  time 
we  should  have  learnt  to  know  each  other  ! '  she  exclaimed. 
*  It  has  been  altogether  the  very  oddest  day,  a  sort  of  sand- 
wich of  good  and  bad,  two  bits  of  the  dry  bread  of  persecution, 
but  in  between,  you  and  Mr.  Osmond  and  my  beautiful  new 
Ijongfellow.' 

Brian  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  simile,  and  was  not 
a  little  pleased  to  hear  the  reference  to  his  book ;  but  his 
amusement  was  soon  dispelled  by  a  grim  little  incident.  Just 
at  that  minute  they  happened  to  pass  an  undertaker's  cart 
which  was  standing  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  houses ;  a  coffin 
was  borne  across  the  pavement  in  front  of  them.  Erica,  with  a 
quick  exclamation,  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  shrank  back 
to  make  room  for  the  bearers  to  pass.  Looking  down  at  her, 
he  saw  that  she  was  quite  pale.  The  coffin  was  carried  into  the 
house  and  they  passed  on. 

'  How  I  do  hate  seeing  anything  like  that ! '  she  exclaimed. 
Then  looking  back  and  up  to  the  windows  of  the  house,  '  Poor 
people  !  I  wonder  whether  they  are  very  sad.  It  seems  to  make 
all  the  world  dark  when  one  comes  across  such  things.  Father 
thinks  it  is  good  to  be  reminded  of  the  end,  that  it  makes  one 
more  eager  to  work,  but  he  doesn't  even  wish  for  anything  after 
death,  nor  do  any  of  the  best  people  I  know.  It  is  silly  of  me, 
but  I  never  can  bear  to  think  of  quite  coming  to  an  end,  I  sup- 
pose because  I  am  not  so  unselfish  as  the  othei-s.' 

'  Or  may  it  not  be  a  natural  instinct,  which  is  implanted  in 
all,  which  perhaps  you  have  not  yet  crushed  by  argument.' 

Erica  shook  her  head. 

•  More  likely  to  be  a  little  bit  of  one  of  my  covenanting  an- 
cestors coming  out  in  me.  Still  I  own  that  the  hope  of  the  here- 
after is  the  one  point  in  which  you  have  the  better  of  it.     Life 


36  *  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  ' 

must  seem  very  easy  if  you  believe  that  all  will  be  made  up  to 
you  and  all  wrong  set  right  after  you  are  dead.  You  see  we 
have  rather  hard  measure  here,  and  don't  expect  anything  at 
all  by-and-by.  But  all  the  same  I  am  always  rather  ashamed  of 
this  instinct,  or  selfishness,  or  Scottish  inheritance,  which  ever 
it  is  ! ' 

'  Ashamed  !  why  should  you  be  1 ' 

'  It  is  a  sort  of  weakness,  I  think,  which  strong  characters 
like  my  father  are  without.  You  see  he  cares  so  much  for 
every  one,  and  thinks  so  much  of  making  the  world  a  little  less 
miserable  in  this  generation,  but  most  of  my  love  is  for  him 
and  for  my  mother;  and  so  when  I  think  of  death — of  their 
death '  she  broke  off  abruptly. 

'  Yet  do  not  call  it  selfishness,'  said  Brian,  with  a  slightly 
choked  feeling,  for  there  had  been  a  depth  of  pain  in  Erica's 
tone.  '  Aly  father,  who  has  just  that  love  of  humanity  of  which 
you  speak,  has  still  the  most  abs'^Uite  belief  in — yes,  and  longing 
for — immortality.     It  is  no  sclfi£hnes<s  in  him.' 

'  I  am  sure  it  is  not,'  said  Erica,  warmly,  '  I  shouldn't  think 
he  could  be  selfish  in  any  way.  I  am  glad  he  spoke  to-night ; 
it  docs  one  good  to  hear  a  speech  like  that,  even  if  one  doesn't 
agi'ce  with  it.  I  wish  there  were  a  few  more  clergymen  like 
him,  then  perhaps  the  tolerance  and  brothcrliness  he  spoke  of 
might  become  possible.  But  it  must  be  a  long  Avay  off,  or  it 
would  not  seem  such  an  imheard-of  thing  that  I  should  be 
talking  like  this  to  you.  Why,  it  is  the  first  time  in  my  whole 
life  that  I  have  spoken  to  a  Christian  except  on  the  most  every- 
day subjects.' 

'  Then  I  hope  you  won't  let  it  be  the  last,'  said  Brian. 

*  I  should  like  to  know  Mr.  Osmond,  better,'  said  Erica,  '  for 
you  know  it  seems  very  extraordinary  to  me  that  a  clever 
scientific  man  can  speak  as  he  spoke  to-night.  I  should  like 
to  know  how  you  reconcile  all  the  contradictions,  how  you  can 
believe  what  seems  to  me  so  unlikely,  how  even  if  you  do  be- 
lieve in  a  (iod  you  can  think  Him  good  wliilc  the  world  is 
what  it  is.  If  there  is  a  good  Cod  why  doesn't  He  make  us  all 
know  Him,  and  end  all  the  evil  and  cniclty]' 

lirian  did  not  rci)ly  for  a  moment.  The  familiar  gaslit 
street,  the  usual  number  of  passengers,  the  usual  careworn  or 
viceworn  faces  passing  by,  damp  pavements,  muddy  roads, 
fresh  winter  wind,  all  seemed  so  natural,  but  to  talk  of  the 
deepest  tilings  in  heaven  and  earth  was  so  unnatural !  He  was 
a  very  reserved  man,  but  looking  down  at  the  eager,  questioning 


•  SUPPOSING  IT  IS  TRUE  !  '  37 

face  beside  him  his  reserve  all  at  once  melted.  He  spoke  very 
quietly,  but  in  a  voice  which  showed  Erica  that  he  was,  at  least, 
as  she  expressed  it  '  honestly  deluded/  Evidently  he  did  from 
bis  very  heart  believe  what  he  said. 

'  But  how  are  we  to  judge  what  is  best? '  he  replied.  '  My 
belief  is  that  God  is  slowly  and  gradually  educating  the  world, 
not  forcing  it  on  unnaturally,  bu.t  drawing  it  on  step  by  step 
making  it  work  out  its  own  lessons  as  the  best  teachers  do  with 
their  pupils.  To  me  the  idea  of  a  steady  progression,  in  which 
man  himself  may  be  a  co-worker  with  God,  is  far  more  beautiful 
than  the  conception  of  a  Being  who  does  not  work  by  natural 
laws  at  all,  but  arbitrarily  causes  this  and  that  to  be  or  not  to 
be.' 

*  But  then  if  your  God  is  educating  the  world,  He  is  edu- 
cating many  of  us  in  ignorance  of  Himself,  in  atheism.  How 
can  that  be  good  or  light  ]  Surely  you,  for  instance,  must  be 
rather  puzzled  when  you  come  across  atheists,  if  you  believe 
in  a  perfect  God,  and  think  atheism  the  most  fearful  mistake 
possible  V 

'•  If  I  could  not  believe  that  God  can,  and  does,  ediicate 
some  of  us  throvigh  atheism  I  should  indeed  be  miserable,'  said 
Brian,  with  a  thrill  of  pain  in  his  voice  which  startled  Erica.  'But 
I  do  believe  that  even  atheism,  even  blank  ignorance  of  Him,  may 
be  a  stage  through  which  alone  some  of  us  can  be  brought  on- 
ward. The  noblest  man  I  ever  knew  passed  through  that  stage, 
and  I  can't  think  he  would  have  been  half  the  man  he  is  if  he 
had  not  passed  through  it.' 

'  I  have  only  known  two  or  three  people  who  from  atheists 
became  theists,  and  they  were  horrid!'  said  Erica,  emphatically. 
'  Peo])le  always  are  spiteful  to  the  side  they  have  left.' 

'  You  could  not  say  that  of  my  friend,'  said  Brian,  mvisingly. 
'  I  wish  you  could  meet  him,' 

They  had  reached  the  entrance  to  Guilford  Terrace,  Raebum 
and  Charles  Osmond  overtook  them,  and  the  conversation 
ended  abruptly.  Perhaps  because  Erica  had  made  no  answer  to 
the  last  remark,  and  was  conscious  of  a  touch  of  malice  in  her 
former  speech,  she  put  a  little  additional  warmth  into  her  fare- 
well At  any  rate,  there  was  that  which  touched  Brian's  very 
heart  in  the  frank  innocence  of  her  hand-clasp,  in  the  sweet 
yet  questioning  eyes  that  were  raised  to  his. 

He  turned  away,  happier  and  yet  sadder  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life.  Not  a  word  passed  between  him  and  his  father 
as  they  crossed  the  square,  but  when  they  reached  home  they 


33  •  suprosixG  it  is  true  1 ' 

instinctively  drew  together  over  the  study  fire.  There  was  a 
long  silence  even  then,  broken  at  lust  by  Charles  Osmond. 

'  Well,  my  son  ] '  he  said. 

'  I  cannot  see  how  I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to  her,'  said 
Brian,  abruptly,  as  if  his  father  had  been  following  the  whole  of 
liis  train  of  thought,   which,  indeed,  to  a  certain  extent  he  had. 

'  Was  this  afternoon  your  first  meeting  ] ' 

'  Our  first  speaking.  I  have  seen  her  many  times,  but  oidy 
to-day  realised  what  she  is,' 

'Well,  your  little  Undine  is  very  bewitching,  and  much 
more  than  bewitching,  true  to  the  core  and  loyal  and  loving.  If 
only  the  hardness  of  her  life  does  not  embitter  her,  I  think 
she  will  make  a  grand  woman.' 

*  Tell  me  what  you  did  this  afternoon,'  said  Brian,  '  you 
must  have  been  some  time  with  them.' 

Charles  Osmond  told  him  all  that  had  passed ;  then  con- 
tinued, 

'  She  is,  as  I  said,  a  fascinating  bright  little  Undine,  inclined 
to  be  wilful,  I  sliould  foncy,  and  with  a  sort  of  warmth  and 
quickness  about  her  whole  character ;  in  many  ways  still  a  child, 
and  yet  in  others  strangely  old  for  her  years ;  on  the  whole  I 
should  say  as  fair  a  specimen  of  the  purely  natural  being  as  you 
would  often  meet  with.  The  spiritual  part  of  her  is,  I  fancy, 
asleep.' 

'  No,  I  fancy  to-night  has  made  it  stir  for  the  first  time,' 
said  Brian,  and  he  told  his  father  a  little  of  what  had  passed 
between  himself  and  Eric  i. 

'  And  the  Longfellow  was,  I  suppose,  from  you,'  said  Charles 
Osmond.  '  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  delight  over  it ! 
Words  absolutely  failed  her.  I  don't  think  any  one  else 
noticed  it ;  but,  her  own  vocabulary  coming  to  an  end,  she 
turned  to  oui-s,  it  was  "  What  heavenly  person  can  have  sent 
me  this  r" 

Brian  smiled,  but  sighed  too. 

'  One  talks  of  the  spiritual  side  remaining  luitouched,'  he 
said,  '  yet  how  is  it  ever  to  be  otherwise  than  chained  and 
fettered,  while  such  men  as  that  Randolph  are  recognised  as  the 
champions  of  our  cause,  while  injustice  and  luikindness  meet  her 
at  every  turn,  while  it  is  something  rare  and  extraordinary  for 
a  Christian  to  speak  a  kind  word  to  her  !  If  to-day  she  has  first 
ealised  that  Christians  need  not  necessarily  behave  as  brutes, 
I  have  realised  a  little  what  life  is  from  lier  point  of  view.' 

*  Then  realising  that  perhaps  you  may  help  her,  perhaps 


ERICA'S  RESOLVE.  39 

another  chapter  of  the  old  legend  may  come  tn;e,  and  you 
may  be  the  means  of  waking  the  spirit  in  your  Undine.' 

'  1 1  Oh  no !  How  can  you  think  of  it !  You  or  Donovan, 
perhaps,  but  even  that  idea  seems  to  me  wildly  improbable.' 

There  was  something  in  his  humility  and  sadness  which 
touched  his  father  inexpressibly. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  '  if  you  are  really  prepared 
for  all  the  suffering  this  love  must  bring  you,  if  you  mean  to 
take  it,  and  cherish  it,  and  live  for  it,  even  though  it  brings 
you  no  gain,  but  apparent  pain  and  loss,  then  I  think  it  can 
only  raise  both  you  and  your  Undine.' 

Brian  knew  that  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  would  have 
spoken  in  such  a  way ;  his  father's  unworldliness  was  borne  in 
upon  him  as  it  had  never  been  before.  Greatly  as  he  had 
always  reverenced  and  loved  him,  to-night  his  love  and  reverence 
deepened  unspeakably — the  two  were  drawn  nearer  to  each 
other  than  ever. 

It  was  not  the  habit  in  this  house  to  make  the  most  sacred 
ties  of  life  the  butt  for  ill-timed  and  ill-judged  joking.  No 
knight  of  old  thought  or  spoke  more  reverently  or  with  greater 
reserve  of  his  lady-love  than  did  Brian  of  Erica.  He  regarded 
himself  now  as  one  bound  to  do  her  service,  consecrated  from 
that  day  forward  as  her  loyal  knight. 


CHAPTER  V. 

erica's  resolve. 

Men  are  tatooed  with  their  special  beliefs  like  so  many  South-Sea 
Islanders ;  but  a  real  human  heart,  with  Divine  love  in  it,  beats  with  the 
same  glow  under  all  the  patterns  of  all  earth's  thousand  tribes. 

0.  Wendell  Holmes. 

For  the  next  fortnight  Brian  and  Erica  continued  to  pass  each 
other  every  afternoon  in  Gower  Street,  as  they  had  done  for  so 
long,  the  only  difference  was  that  now  they  gi-eeted  each  other, 
that  occasionally  Brian  would  be  rendered  happy  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  by  some  brief,  passing  remark  from  his  Undine,  or  by 
one  of  her  peculiarly  bright  smiles.  One  day,  however,  she 
actua  ly  stopped  ;  her  face  was  radiant 


40  erica's  resolve. 

•  I  must  just  tell  you  our  good  news,'  she  said.  *  My  father 
has  won  his  case,  and  has  got  heavy  damages.' 

*  I  am  very  glad,'  said  Brian.  '  It  must  be  a  great  relief  to 
you  all  to  have  it  over.' 

'  Immense  !  Father  looks  as  if  a  ton's  vreight  had  been 
taken  oft"  his  mind  !     Now  I  hope  we  shall  have  a  little  peace.' 

With  a  hasty  good-bye,  she  hurried  on,  an  unusual  elasticity 
in  her  light  footsteps.  In  Guilford  Square  she  met  a  political 
friend  of  her  father's,  and  was  brought  once  more  to  a  standstill. 
This  time  it  was  a  little  unwillingly,  for  Monsieur  Noirol  teased 
her  unmercifully,  and  at  their  last  meeting  had  almost  made 
her  angry  by  talking  of  a  friend  of  his  at  Paris  who  oflered 
mitold  advantages  to  any  clever  and  well-educated  English  girl 
who  wished  to  learn  the  language,  and  who  would  in  return 
teach  her  own.  Erica  had  been  made  miserable  by  the  mere 
suggestion  that  such  a  situation  would  suit  her  ;  the  slightest 
hint  that  it  might  be  well  for  her  to  go  abroad  had  roused  in 
her  a  sort  of  terror  lest  her  father  might  ever  seriously  think 
of  the  scheme.  She  had  not  quite  forgiven  Monsieur  Noirol  for 
having  spoken,  although  the  proposal  had  not  been  gravely 
made,  and  probably  only  persevered  in  out  of  the  spirit  of 
teasing.     But  to-day  Monsieur  Noirol  looked  very  grave. 

'  You  have  heard  our  good  news  V  said  Erica.  '  Now  don't 
begin  again  about  Madame  Lemercier's  school ;  I  don't  want  to 
be  made  cross  to-day  of  all  days,  when  I  am  so  happy  !' 

'  I  will  tease  you  no  more,  dear  Mademoiselle,'  said  the 
Frenchman  ;  but  he  oflFered  no  congratulations,  and  there  was 
something  in  his  manner  which  made  Erica  uneasy. 

'  Is  anything  wrong  1  Has  anything  happened'?'  she  asked, 
quickly. 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoiilders. 

'  AVho  knows  !  It  is  an  evil  world,  Mademoiselle  Erica,  as 
you  will  realise  when  you  have  lived  in  it  as  long  as  I  have. 
But  I  detain  you.     Good-bj'c.     Au  revoir/' 

He  took  oft"  his  hat  with  a  flourish,  and  passed  on. 

Erica  feeling  baffled  and  a  little  cross,  hurried  home. 
Monsieur  Noirol  had  not  teased  her  to-day,  but  he  had  been 
inscrutable  and  tiresome,  and  he  had  made  her  feel  uneasy. 
She  opened  the  front  door,  and  went  at  once  to  her  father's 
study,  pausing  for  a  moment  at  the  sound  of  voices  within. 
She  recognised,  however,  that  it  was  her  cousin,  Tom  Craigie, 
who  wa-s  sjjeaking,  and  without  more  delay  she  entered.  Then 
in  a  moment    she    imderstood    why  M.   Noirol    had    been    so 


erica's  resolve.  4:1 

mysterious.  Tom  was  speaking  quickly  and  strongly,  and 
there  was  a  glow  of  anger  on  his  face.  Her  father  was  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  cold 
light  in  his  eyes,  which  filled  Erica  with  dismay.  Never  in 
the  most  anxious  days  had  she  seen  him  look  at  once  so  angry, 
yet  so  weighed  down  with  care. 

'  What  is  the  matter  V  she  questioned,  breathlessly,  in- 
itinctively  turning  to  Tom,  whose  hot  anger  was  more  ap- 
proachable. 

'  The  scamp  of  a  Christian  has  gone  bankrupt,'  he  said, 
referring  to  the  defendant  in  the  late  action,  but  too  fui-ious  to 
speak  very  intelligibly. 

'Mr.  Cheale,  you  mean?'  asked  Erica. 

'  The  ijcoundrel  !  Yes  !  So  not  a  farthing  of  costs  and 
damages  shall  we  see  !  It  is  the  most  fiendish  thing  ever 
heard  of!' 

'  Will  the  costs  be  very  heavy  V 

'  Heavy  !  I  should  think  they  would  indeed  !'  He  named 
the  probable  sum  ;  it  seemed  a  fearful  addition  to  the  already 
existing  bui-den  of  debts. 

A  look  of  such  pain  and  perplexity  came  over  Erica's  face 
tliat  Raeburn,  for  the  first  time  realising  what  was  passing  in 
the  room,  drew  her  towards  him,  his  face  softening,  and  the 
cold  angry  light  in  his  eyes  changing  to  sadness. 

'  Never  mind,  my  child,'  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "Tis  a  hard 
blow,  but  we  must  bear  up.  Injustice  won't  triumph  in  the 
end.' 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  and  look  which  made  Erica 
feel  dreadfully  inclined  to  cry ;  but  that  would  have  disgraced 
her  for  ever  in  the  eyes  of  stoical  Tom,  so  she  only  squeezed  his 
hand  hard  and  tried  to  think  of  that  far  distant  future  of  which 
she  had  spoken  to  Charles  Osmond,  when  there  would  be  no 
tiresome  Christians  and  bigots  and  law -suits. 

There  was,  however,  one  person  in  the  house  who  was  in- 
variably the  recipient  of  all  the  troubled  confidences  of  others. 
In  a  very  few  minutes  Erica  had  left  the  study  and  was  curled 
up  beside  her  mother's  couch,  talking  out  unreservedly  all  her 
grief,  and  anger,  and  perplexity. 

Mrs.  Raeburn,  delicate  and  invalided  as  she  was,  had  never- 
theless a  great  deal  of  influence,  tliough  perhaps  neither 
Raeburn,  nor  Erica,  nor  warm-hearted  Tom  Craigie,  vmderstood 
how  much  she  did  for  them  all.  She  was  so  unassuming,  so 
little  given  to  unnecessary  speech,  so  I'eticent,  that  her  life  made 
3 


42  erica's  resolve. 

very  little  show,  while  it  had  become  so  entirely  a  matter  of 
course  that  every  one  should  bring  his  private  troubles  to  her 
that  it  would  have  seemed  extraordinary  not  to  meet  with  exactly 
the  S3'mpathy  and  counsel  needed.  To-da}',  however,  even  Mrs. 
Eaeburn  was  almost  too  despondent  to  cheer  the  others.  It 
comforted  Erica  to  talk  to  her,  but  she  could  not  help  feeling 
very  miserable  as  she  saw  the  anxiety  and  sadness  in  her 
mother's   face. 

'What  more  can  we  do,  mother?'  she  questioned.  'I  can't 
think  of  a  single  thing  we  can  give  up.' 

'  I  really  don't  know,  dear,'  said  her  mother,  with  a  sigh. 
'We  have  nothing  but  the  absolute  necessaries  of  life  now, 
except  indeed  your  education  at  the  High  School,  and  that  is 
a  very  trifling  expense,  and  one  which  cannot  be  interfered 
with.' 

Erica  was  easily  depressed,  like  most  high-spirited  persons ; 
but  she  was  not  used  to  seeing  either  her  father  or  her  mother 
despondent,  and  the  mere  strangeness  kept  her  from  going 
down  to  the  very  deepest  depths.  She  had  the  feeling  that 
at  least  one  of  them  must  try  to  keep  up.  Yet,  do  what  she 
would,  that  evening  was  one  of  the  saddest  and  dreariest  she 
had  ever  spent.  All  the  excitement  of  contest  was  over,  and 
a  sort  of  dead  weight  of  gloom  seemed  to  oppress  them. 
Raeburn  was  absolutely  silent.  From  the  first  Erica  had  never 
heard  him  complain,  but  his  anger,  and  afterwards  his  intense 
depression,  spoke  volumes.  Even  Tom,  her  friend  and  play- 
fellow, seemed  changed  this  evening,  grown  somehow  from  a 
boy  to  a  man  ;  for  there  was  a  sternness  about  him  which  she 
had  never  seen  before,  and  which  made  the  days  of  their  child- 
hood seem  far  away.  And  yet  it  was  not  so  very  long  ago  that  she 
And  Tom  liad  been  the  most  light-hearted  and  careless  beings 
TO  the  world,  and  had  imagined  the  chief  interest  of  life  to 
consist  in  tending  dormice,  and  tame  rats,  and  silkworms  ! 
She  wondered  whether  they  could  ever  feel  free  again,  whether 
they  could  ever  enjoy  their  long  Saturday  afternoon  rambles, 
or  wliether  this  weight  of  care  would  alwa3-s  be  upon  them. 

With  a  very  heavy  heart  she  prepared  her  lessons  for  the 
next  day,  finding  it  hard  to  take  much  interest  in  Magna 
Charta  and  legal  enactments  in  the  time  of  King  John,  when 
the  legal  enactments  of  to-day  were  so  much  more  mind-en- 
grossing. Tom  was  sitting  opposite  to  her  writing  letters  for 
Raeburn.  Once,  notwithstanding  his  grave  looks,  she  hazarded 
a  question. 


erica's  resolve.  43 

'Torn,'  she  said,  shutting  up  her  History  of  the  English 
People,  'Tom,  what  do  3'ou  think  will  happen]' 

Tom  looked  across  at  her  with  angry  yet  sorrowful  eyes. 

'  I  think,'  he  said,  sternly,  '  that  the  chieftain  will  try  to  do 
the  work  of  ten  men  at  once,  and  will  pay  off  these  debts  or  die 
in  the  attempt.' 

The  'chieftain'  was  a  faA-ourite  name  among  the  Raeburnites 
for  their  leader,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  the  clan  feeling 
among  them.  The  majority  of  them  were  earnest,  hard-working, 
thouglitful  men,  and  their  society  was  both  powerful  and  well- 
organized,  while  their  personal  devotion  to  Raeburu  lent  a 
vigour  and  vitality  to  the  whole  body  which  might  otherwise 
have  been  lacking.  Perhaps  comparatively  few  would  have 
been  enthusiastic  for  the  cause  of  atheism  had  not  that  cause 
been  represented  by  a  high-souled,  self-denying  man  whom  they 
loved  with  all  their  hearts. 

The  dreary  evening  ended  at  length.  Erica  helped  her  mother 
to  bed,  and  then  with  slow  steps  climbed  up  to  her  little  attic 
room.  It  was  cold  and  comfortless  enough,  bare  of  all  luxuries, 
but  even  here  the  walls  were  lined  with  books,  and  Erica's  little 
iron  bedstead  looked  somewhat  incongruous,  siirrounded  as  it 
was  with  dingy-looking  volumes,  dusty  old  legal  books,  works 
of  reference,  books  atheistical,  theological,  metaphysical,  or 
scientific.  On  one  shelf,  amid  this  strangely  heterogeneous 
collection,  she  kept  her  own  particular  treasui'es — Brian's 
Longfellow,  one  or  two  of  Dickens'  books  which  Tom  had  given 
her,  and  the  beloved  old  Grimm  and  Hans  Andersen,  which 
had  been  the  friends  of  her  childhood,  and  which  for  'old  sakes' 
sake'  she  had  never  had  the  heart  to  sell.  The  only  other 
trace  of  her  in  the  strange  little  bedroom  was  in  a  wonderful 
array  of  china  animals  on  the  mantelpiece.  She  was  a  gres^^ 
animal-lover,  and,  being  a  favourite  with  every  one,  she  received 
many  votive  offerings.  Her  shrine  was  an  amusing  one  to  look 
at.  A  green  china  frog  played  a  tuneless  guitar;  a  pensive 
monkey  gazed  with  clasped  hands  and  dreadfully  human  eyes 
into  futurity ;  there  were  sagacious-looking  elephants,  placid 
rhinoceroses,  rampant  hares,  two  pug  dogs  clasped  in  au 
irrevocable  embrace,  an  enormous  lobster,  a  diminutive  polar 
bear,  and  in  the  centre  of  all  a  most  evil-looking  jackdaw  about 
half-an-inch  high. 

But  to-night  the  childish  side  of  Erica  was  in  abeyance ; 
the  cares  of  womanhood  seemed  gathering  upon  her.  She  put 
out  her  candle  and  sat  down  in  the  dark,  racking  her  brain  for 


ii  erica's  resolvb 

some  plan  by  which  to  relieve  her  father  and  mother.  Their 
life  Mas  growing  harder  and  harder.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
poverty  in  itself  was  bearable  enough,  but  that  the  ever- 
increasing  load  of  debt  was  not  bearable.  As  long  as  she 
could  remember,  it  had  always  been  like  a  mill-stone  tied  about 
their  necks,  and  the  ceaseless  petty  economies  and  privations 
seemed  of  little  avail ;  she  felt  very  much  as  if  she  were  one  of 
the  Danaids,  doomed  for  ever  to  pour  water  into  a  vessel  with 
a  hole  in  it. 

Yet  in  one  sense  she  was  better  off  than  many,  for  these 
debts  were  not  selfish  debts — no  one  had  ever  known  Racbum 
to  spend  an  unnecessary  sixpence  on  himself ;  all  this  load  had 
been  incurred  in  the  defence  of  what  he  considered  the  truth — 
by  his  unceasing  struggles  for  liberty.  She  was  proud  of  the 
debts,  proud  to  suffer  in  Avhat  she  regarded  as  the  sacred  cause; 
but  in  spite  of  that  she  was  almost  in  despair  this  evening,  the 
future  looked  so  hopelessly  black. 

Tom's  words  rang  in  her  head — *  The  chieftain  will  try  to 
do  the  work  of  ten  men  !'  What  if  he  overworked  himself  as 
he  had  done  once  a  few  years  ago  1  What  if  he  died  in  the 
attempt  1  She  wished  Tom  had  not  spoken  so  strongly.  In 
the  friendly  darkness  she  did  not  try  to  check  the  tears  which 
would  come  into  her  eyes  at  the  thought.  Something  must  be 
done  !  She  must  in  some  way  help  him  !  And  then,  all  at 
once,  there  flashed  into  her  mind  Monsieur  Noirol's  teasing 
suggestion  that  she  should  go  to  Paris.  Here  was  a  Avay  in 
which,  free  of  all  expense,  she  might  finish  her  education,  might 
])ractically  earn  her  living  !  In  this  way  she  might  indeed  help 
to  lighten  the  load,  but  it  would  be  at  the  cost  of  absolute  self- 
sacrifice.  She  must  leave  home,  and  father  and  mother,  and 
•country  ! 

Erica  was  not  exactly  selfish,  but  she  was  very  yoxmg.  For 
a  time  the  thought  of  the  voluntary  sacrifice  seemed  quite 
unbearable,  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  it. 

'  Why  should  I  give  up  all  this !  Why  should  prejudice 
and  bigotry  spoil  my  whole  life]'  she  thought,  beginning  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  room  with  quick,  agitated  steps.  '  AVhy 
should  we  suffer  becaiisc  that  wretch  has  gone  bankrupt  1  It 
is  unfair,  unjust,  it  can't  be  right' 

She  leant  her  arms  on  the  window-sill,  and  looked  out  into 
the  silent  night.  The  stars  were  shining  peacefully  enough, 
looking  dinvn  on  this  world  of  strife  and  struggle  ;  Erica  grew 
a   little    calmer   as   she  looked  ;    Nature,   with  its  majesty  of 


erica's  resolve.  45 

calmness,   seemed   to   quiet   her  troubled   heart   and    'sweep 
gradual   gospels   in.' 

From  some  recess  of  memory  there  came  to  her  some  half- 
enigmatical  Avords;  they  had  been  quoted  by  Charles  Osmond 
in  his  speech,  but  she  did  not  remember  where  she  had  heard 
them,  only  they  began  to  ring  in  her  ears  now  : — 

'  There  is  no  gain  except  by  loss, 
There  is  no  life  excei^t  by  death, 


Nor  glory  but  by  bearing  shame. 
Nor  justice  but  by  taking  blame.' 


She  did  not  altogether  understand  the  verse,  but  there  was 
a  truth  in  it  which  could  hardly  fail  to  come  home  to  one  who 
knew  what  persecution  meant.  What  if  the  very  blame  and 
injustice  of  the  present  brought  in  the  future  reign  of  justice  ! 
She  seemed  to  hear  her  father's  voice  saying  again, 

'  We  must  bear  up,  child ;  injustice  won't  triumph  in  the 
end.' 

'  There  is  no  gain  except  by  loss  I' 

What  if  her  loss  of  home  and  friends  brovight  gain  to  the 
■world  !  That  was  a  thought  which  brought  a  glow  of  happiness 
to  her  even  in  the  midst  of  her  pain.  There  was,  after  all, 
much  of  the  highest  Christianity  about  her,  though  she  would 
have  been  very  much  vexed  if  any  one  had  told  her  so,  because 
Christianity  meant  to  her  narrow-mindedness  instead  of  brotherly 
love.  However  it  might  be,  there  was  no  denying  that  the 
child  of  the  great  teacher  of  atheism  had  grasped  the  true 
meaning  of  life,  had  grasped  it,  and  was  prepared  to  act  on  it 
too.  She  had  always  lived  with  those  who  were  ready  to  spend 
all  in  the  promotion  of  the  general  good  ;  and  all  that  was  tnie, 
all  that  was  noble  in  her  creed,  all  that  had  filled  her  with 
admiration  in  the  lives  of  those  she  loved,  came  to  her  aid 
now. 

She  went  softly  down  the  dark  staircase  to  Raebum's  study ; 
it  was  late,  and,  anxious  not  to  disturb  the  rest  of  the  house, 
she  opened  the  door  noiselessly  and  crept  in.  Her  father  was 
sitting  at  his  desk  wi-iting  ;  he  looked  very  stern,  but  there  was 
a  sort  of  grandeur  about  his  i-uggcd  face.  He  was  absorbed  in 
his  work  and  did  not  hear  her,  and  for  a  minute  she  stood  qiiite 
still  watching  him,  realising  with  pain  and  yet  with  a  happy 
pride  how  greatly  she  loved  him.  Her  heart  beat  fast  at  the 
thought  of  helping  him,  lightening  his  load  even  a  little. 


1:6  erica's  resolve. 

'Father,'  she  said,  softly, 

Raebuni  was  the  soi't  of  man  who  could  not  be  startled,  but 
he  looked  up  quickly,  apparently  returning  from  some  speculative 
region  with  a  slight  efibrt.  He  was  the  most  practical  of  men, 
and  yet  for  a  minute  he  felt  as  if  he  were  living  in  a  dream,  for 
Erica  stood  beside  him,  pale  and  beautiful,  with  a  sort  of  heroic 
light  about  her  whole  face  which  transfoi'med  her  from  a  merry 
child  to  a  high-souled  woman.  Instinctively  he  rose  to  speak 
to  her. 

*  I  will  not  disturb  you  for  more  than  a  minute,  father,'  she 
said,  '  it  is  only  that  I  have  thought  of  a  way  in  which  I  think 
I  coxild  help  you  if  you  would  let  me.' 

'Well,  dear,  what  is  iti'  said  Racbum,  still  watching  half 
dreamily  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  face  before  him.  Yet  an 
undefined  sense  of  dread  chilled  his  heart.  Was  anything  too 
hard  or  high  for  her  to  propose  1  He  listened  without  a  word 
to  her  account  of  Monsieur  Noirol's  Parisian  scheme,  to  her 
voluntary  suggestion  that  she  should  go  into  exile  for  two  years. 
At  the  end  he  merely  put  a  brief  question. 

'Are  you  ready  to  bear  two  years  of  loneliness  V 

*  I  am  ready  to  help  you,'  she  said,  w-ith  a  little  quiver  in 
her  voice  and  a  cloud  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 

Raebunx  turned  away  from  her  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  little  room,  his  eyes  not  altogether  free  from  tears, 
for,  pachydermatous  as  he  was  accounted  by  liis  enemies,  this 
man  was  very  tender  over  his  child,  he  could  hardly  endure  to 
see  her  pain.  Yet  after  all,  though  she  had  given  him  a  sharp 
pang,  she  had  brought  him  happiness  which  any  father  might 
envy.  He  came  back  to  her,  his  stern  face  inexjDrcssibly 
softened. 

'  And  I  am  ready  to  be  helped,  my  child ;  it  shall  be  as  you 
say.' 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  and  in  the  gentle  ac- 
ceptance of  help  from  one  so  strong  and  self-reliant  which 
touched  Erica  more  than  any  praise  or  demonstrative  thanks 
could  have  done.  They  were  going  to  work  together,  he  had 
promised  that  she  should  fight  side  by  side  with  him. 

'  Law-suits  may  ruin  us,'  said  llaeburn,  '  but,  after  all,  the 
evil  has  a  way  of  helping  out  the  good.'  He  put  his  arm  round 
her  and  kissed  her.  '  You  have  taught  me,  little  one,  how 
powerless  and  weak  are  these  petty  persecutions.  They  can 
only  prick  and  sting  us  !  Nothing  can  really  hurt  us  while  we 
love  the  truth  and  love  each  other.' 


brica's  resolve.  47 

That  was  the  happiest  moment  Erica  had  ever  known,  already 
her  loss  had  brought  a  rapturous  gain, 

'  I  shall  never  go  to  sleep  to-night,'  she  said.  '  Let  me  help 
you  with  your  letters.' 

Raeburn  demurred  a  little,  but  yielded  to  her  entreaties, 
and  for  the  next  two  hours  the  father  and  daughter  worked  in 
silence.  The  bitterness  which  had  lurked  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  pamphlet  that  Raeburn  had  in  hand  was  quite  lacking  in 
its  close ;  the  WTiter  had  somehow  been  lifted  into  a  higher, 
purer  atmosphere,  and  if  his  pen  flew  less  rapidly  over  the  paper, 
it  at  any  rate  wrote  words  which  would  long  outlive  the  mere 
overflow  of  an  angry  heart. 

Coming  back  to  the  world  of  realities  at  last  somewhere  in 
the  small  hours,  he  found  his  fire  out,  a  goodly  pile  of  letters 
ready  for  his  signature,  and  his  little  amanuensis  fast  asleep  in 
her  chair.  Reproaching  himself  for  having  allowed  her  to  sit 
up,  he  took  her  in  his  strong  arms  as  though  she  had  been  a 
mere  baby,  and  carried  her  up  to  her  room  so  gently  that  she 
never  woke.  The  next  morning  she  found  herself  so  swathed 
in  plaids  and  rugs  and  blankets  that  she  could  hardly  move, 
and,  in  spite  of  a  bad  headache,  could  not  help  beginning  the 
day  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

Raeburn  was  not  a  man  who  ever  let  the  grass  grow  under 
his  feet,  his  decisions  were  made  with  thought,  but  with  very 
rapid  thought,  and  his  action  was  always  prompt.  His  case 
excited  a  good  deal  of  attention ;  but  long  before  the  newspapers 
had  ceased  to  wage  war  either  for  or  against  him,  long  before 
the  weekly  journals  had  ceased  to  team  with  letters  relating  to 
the  law-suit,  he  had  formed  his  plans  for  the  future.  His  home 
was  to  be  completely  broken  up,  Erica  was  to  go  to  Paris,  his 
wife  was  to  live  with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Craigie,  and  her  son  Tom, 
who  had  agreed  to  keep  on  the  lodgings  in  Guilford  Terrace, 
while  for  himself  he  had  mapped  out  such  a  programme  of  work 
as  could  only  have  been  undertaken  by  a  man  of  '  Titanic 
energy '  and  '  Herculean  strength,'  epithets  which  even  the  hostile 
press  invariably  bestowed  on  him.  How  great  the  sacrifice  was 
to  him  few  people  knew.  As  we  have  said  before,  the  world 
regarded  him  as  a  target,  and  would  hardly  have  believed  that 
he  was  in  reality  a  man  of  the  gentlest  tastes,  as  fond  of  his  home 
as  any  man  in  England,  a  faithful  friend  and  a  devoted  father,  and 
perhaps  all  the  more  dependent  on  the  sympathies  of  his  own 
circle  because  of  the  bitter  hostility  he  encountered  from  other 
quarters.     But  he  made  his  plans  resolutely,  and  said  very  little 


48  erica's  resolve, 

about  them  either  one  way  or  the  other,  sometimes  eveu 
checking  Erica  when  she  grumbled  for  him,  or  gave  vent  to  her 
indignation  with  regard  to  the  defendant. 

'  We  work  for  freedom,  little  one,'  he  used  to  say ;  '  and  it  is 
an  honour  to  sufier  in  the  cause  of  liberty.' 

'  But  every  one  says  you  Avill  kill  yourself  with  overwork,' 
said  Erica,  'and  especially  when  you  are  in  America.' 

'  Tliey  don't  know  what  stuff  I'm  made  of,'  said  Kaebum ; 
'  and,  even  if  it  should  use  me  up,  what  then  1  It's  better  to 
wear  out  than  to  rust  out,  as  a  Avise  man  once  remarked.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Erica,  rather  faintly. 

*  But  I've  no  intention  of  wearing  out  just  yet,'  said  Raebum, 
cheerfully.  '  You  need  not  be  afraid,  little  son  Ei-ic  ;  and,  if  at 
the  end  of  these  two  years  you  do  come  back  to  find  me  gray 
and  wrinkled,  what  will  that  matter  so  long  as  we  are  free  once 
more.  There's  a  good  time  coming ;  we'll  have  the  cosiest  little 
home  in  London  yet.' 

'  With  a  garden  for  you  to  work  in,'  said  Erica,  brightening 
up  like  a  child  at  the  castle  in  the  air.  'And  we'll  keep  lots  of 
animals,  and  never  bother  again  about  money  all  our  lives.' 

Raeburn  smiled  at  her  ideas  of  felicity — no  cares,  and  plenty 
of  dogs  and  cats  !  He  did  not  anticipate  any  haven  of  rest  at 
the  end  of  the  two  years  for  himself.  He  knew  that  his  life 
must  be  a  series  of  conflicts  to  the  very  end.  Still  he  hoped 
for  relief  from  the  load  of  debt,  and  looked  forward  to  the  ro- 
establishment  of  his  home. 

Brian  Osmond  heard  of  the  plans  before  long,  but  he  scarcely 
saw  Erica  ;  the  Christmas  holidays  began,  and  he  no  longer  met 
her  each  afternoon  in  Gower  Street,  while  the  time  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  for  her  departure  for  Paris.  At  length,  on  the  very 
last  day,  it  chanced  that  they  were  once  more  thrown  together. 

Kaeburn  was  a  gi'cat  lover  of  flowers,  and  he  very  often 
received  floral  ott'erings  from  his  followers.  It  so  happened  that 
some  beautiful  hot-house  flowei-s  had  been  sent  to  him  from  a 
nursery  garden  one  day  m  January,  aud,  unwilling  to  keep  them 
all,  lie  had  suggested  that  Erica  should  take  some  to  the 
neighbouring  ln)spital3.  Now  there  were  two  hospitals  iu 
Giiill'urd  Square ;  Erica  felt  much  more  interested  in  the 
children's  hospital  than  in  the  one  for  grown-up  people;  but, 
Avishing  to  be  impartial,  she  arranged  a  basketful  for  each,  and 
well-pleased  to  have  anything  to  give,  hastened  on  her  errand. 
Much  to  her  delight,  her  first  basket  of  flowers  was  not  only 
accepted  very  gratefully,  but  the  lady  superintendent  took  het 


erica's  resolve.  49 

over  the  hospital,  and  let  her  distribute  the  flowers  among  the 
children.  She  was  very  fond  of  cliildren,  and  was  as  ha2)py  as 
she  could  be  passing  up  and  down  among  the  little  beds,  while 
her  bright  manner  attracted  the  little  ones,  and  made  them 
unusually  affectionate  and  responsive. 

Happy  at  having  been  able  to  gi^'e  them  pleasure,  and  full 
of  tender,  womanly  thoughts,  she  crossed  the  square  to  another 
small  hospital ;  she  was  absorbed  in  pitiful,  loving  humanity, 
had  forgotten  altogether  that  the  world  covmted  her  as  a 
heretic,  and,  wholly  unprepared  for  what  awaited  her,  she  was 
shown  into  the  visitors'  room  and  asked  to  giA^e  her  name. 
Not  only  was  Raeburn  too  notorious  a  name  to  pass  muster, 
but  the  head  of  the  hospital  knew  Erica  by  sight,  and  had  often 
met  her  out  of  doors  with  her  father.  She  was  a  stiff,  narrow- 
minded,  uncompromising  sort  of  person,  and,  in  her  own  words, 
was  '  determined  to  have  no  fellowship  with  the  works  of 
darkness.'  How  she  coiild  consider  bright-faced  Erica,  with 
her  loving  thought  for  others  and  her  free  gift,  a  '  work  of 
darkness,'  it  is  hard  to  understand.  She  was  not  at  all  dis- 
posed, however,  to  be  under  any  sort  of  obligation  to  an  atheist, 
and  the  result  of  it  was  that,  after  a  three  minutes'  interview, 
Erica  found  herself  once  more  in  the  square,  with  her  flowers 
still  in  her  hand,  '  declined  ivithout  thanks.' 

No  one  ever  quite  knew  what  the  superintendent  had  said 
to  her,  but  apparently  the  rebuff  had  been  very  hard  to  bear. 
Not  content  with  declining  any  fellowship  with  the  poor  little 
'  work  of  darkness,'  she  had  gone  on  in  accordance  with  the 
letter  of  the  text  to  reprove  her  ;  and  Erica  left  the  house  with 
burning  cheeks,  and  with  a  tumult  of  angry  feeling  stirred  up 
in  her  heart.  She  was  far  too  angry  to  know  or  care  what  she 
was  doing  ;  she  walked  down  the  quiet  square  in  the  very 
opposite  direction  to  'Persecution  Alley,'  and  might  have 
walked  on  for  an  indefinite  time  had  not  some  one  stopped  her. 

'  I  was  hoping  to  see  you  before  you  left,'  said  a  pleasant 
quiet  voice  close  by  her.  She  looked  up  and  saw  Charles 
Osmond. 

Thus  suddenly  brought  to  a  standstill,  she  became  aware 
that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  A  little  delicate 
sensitive  thing,  the  unsparing  censure  and  the  rude  reception 
she  had  just  met  with  had  quite  upset  her. 

Charles  Osmond  retained  her  hand  in  his  strong  clasp,  and 
looked  questioningly  into  her  bright,  indignant  eyes. 

*  What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ? '  he  asked. 


50  erica's  resolve. 

'  I  am  only  angiy,'  said  Erica,  rather  breathlessly ;  *  hurt 
and  angry,  bccaiise  one  of  your  bigots  has  been  rude  to  me.' 

'  Come  in,  and  tell  me  all  about  it,'  said  Charles  Osmond ; 
and  there  was  something  so  in-esistiblc  in  his  manner  that 
Erica  at  once  allowed  herself  to  be  led  into  one  of  the  tall, 
old-fashioned  houses,  and  taken  into  a  comfortable  and  roomy 
study,  the  nicest  room  she  had  ever  been  in.  It  was  not 
luxurious ;  indeed,  the  Turkey  carpet  was  shabby  and  the 
furniture  well-worn,  but  it  was  homelike,  and  warm  and  cheer- 
ful, evidently  a  room  which  was  dear  to  its  owner, 

Charles  Osmond  made  her  sit  down  in  a  capacious  arni-chair 
close  to  the  fire. 

'  Well,  now,  who  was  the  bigot  ? '  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
would  have  won  the  confidence  of  a  flint. 

Erica  told  as  much  of  the  story  as  she  could  bring  herself 
to  repeat,  qviite  enough  to  show  Charles  Osmond  the  terrible 
harm  which  may  be  wrought  by  tactless  modern  Christianity. 
He  looked  down  very  sorrowfully  at  the  eager,  expressive  face 
of  the  speaker ;  it  was  at  once  very  white  and  very  pink,  for 
the  child  was  sorely  wounded  as  well  as  indignant.  She  was 
evidently,  however,  a  little  vexed  with  herself  for  feeling  the 
insult  so  keenly. 

*  It  is  very  stupid  of  me,'  she  said,  laughing  a  little ;  '  it  is 
time  I  was  used  to  it;  but  I  never  can  help  shaking  in  this 
silly  way  when  any  one  is  rude  to  us.  Tom  laughs  at  me,  and 
says  I  am  made  on  wire  springs  like  a  twelfth-cake  butterfly ! 
But  it  is  rather  hard,  isn't  it,  to  be  shut  out  from  everything, 
even  fi-om  giving  ? ' 

'  I  think  it  is  both  hard  and  wrong,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 
'But  we  do  not  all  shut  you  out' 

'  No,'  said  Erica.  '  You  have  always  been  kind,  you  are  not 
a  bit  like  a  Christian,  Would  you,'-  -  she  hesitated  a  little, — 
*  would  you  take  the  flowers  instead  ? ' 

It  Avas  said  with  a  sh 3' grace  inexpressibly  winning.  Charles 
Osmond  was  touched  and  gratified. 

'  They  will  be  a  great  treat  to  us,'  he  said.  'My  mother  is 
very  fond  of  flowers.  Will  you  come  upstairs  and  see  herl 
AVe  shall  find  afternoon  tea  going  on,  1  expect.' 

So  the  rejected  flowers  found  a  resting-place  in  the  clergy- 
man's house ;  and  Brian,  coming  in  from  his  rounds,  was 
greeted  by  a  sight  which  made  his  heart  beat  at  double  time. 
In  the  drawing-room  beside  his  grandmother  sat  Ei'ica,  her 
little  fur  hat  pushed  back,   her   gloves  off",  busily  arranging 


erica's  resolve.  6] 

Christmas  roses  and  red  camellias.  Her  anger  Lad  died  away, 
she  was  talking  quite  menily.  It  seemed  to  Brian  more  like  a 
beautiful  dream  than  a  bit  of  everyday  life,  to  have  her  sitting 
there  so  natm-ally  in  his  home  ;  but  the  note  of  pain  was  struck 
before  long. 

*  I  must  go  home,'  she  said.  *  This  is  my  last  day,  you 
know.     I  am  going  to  Paris  to-morrow.' 

A  sort  of  sadness  seemed  to  fall  on  them  at  the  words  : 
only  gentle  Mrs.  Osmond  said,  cheerfully, — 

'  You  will  come  to  see  us  again  when  you  come  back,  will 
you  not?' 

And  then,  with  the  privilege  of  the  aged,  she  drew  down 
the  young,  fresh  face  to  hers  and  kissed  it. 

'  You  will  let  me  see  you  home,'  said  Brian.  '  It  is  getting 
dark.' 

Erica  laughingly  protested  that  she  was  well  used  to  taking 
care  of  herself,  but  it  ended  in  Brian's  triumj)hing.  So  to- 
gether they  crossed  the  quiet  square.  Ei'ica  chattered  away 
meiTily  enough,  but  as  they  reached  the  narrow  entrance  to 
Guilford  Terrace  a  shadow  stole  over  her  face. 

*  Oh  ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  come 
home  for  two  whole  yeai-s.' 

*You  go  for  so  long,'  said  Brian,  stifling  a  sigh.  'You 
won't  forget  your  English  friends  ? ' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  you  count  yourself  our  friend  ? '  asked 
Erica,  smiling. 

'  If  you  will  let  me.' 

'  That  is  a  funny  word  to  use,'  she  replied,  laughing.  '  You 
see,  we  are  treated  as  outlaws  generally.  I  don't  think  any 
one  ever  said  "  will  you  let "  to  me  before.  This  is  our  house  ; 
thank  you  for  seeing  me  home.'  Then,  with  a  roguish  look  in 
her  eyes,  she  added,  demurely,  but  with  a  slight  emphasis  on 
the  last  word,  '  Good-bye,  my  friend.' 

Brian  turned  away  sadly  enough ;  but  he  had  not  gone  far 
when  he  heard  flying  footsteps,  and  looking  back  saw  Erica  once 
more. 

'Oh,  I  just  came  to  know  whether  by  any  chance  you 
want  a  kitten,'  she  said ;  '  I  have  a  real  beauty  which  I  want  to 
find  a  nice  home  for.' 

Of  course  Brian  wanted  a  kitten  at  once ;  one  would  have 
imagined  by  the  eagerness  of  his  manner  that  he  was  devoted 
to  the  whole  feline  tribe. 

*  Well,  then,  will  you  come  in  and  see  it  1 '  said  Erica.     *  He 


52  ERICA  S  RESOLVE. 

really  is  a  very  nite  kitten,  and  I  shall  go  away  mucli  happier 
if  I  can  see  him  settled  in  life  first.' 

She  took  him  in,  introduced  him  to  her  mother,  and  ran  off 
in  search  of  the  cat,  returning  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  very 
playful-looking  tabby. 

'  There  he  is,'  she  said,  putting  the  kitten  on  the  table  with 
an  air  of  pride.  '  I  don't  believe  he  has  an  equal  in  all 
Loudon.' 

'  What  do  you  call  him  1 '  asked  Brian. 

'  His  name  is  St,  Anthony,'  said  Erica.  *  Oh,  I  hope,  by- 
the-by,  you  won't  object  to  that;  it  was  no  disrespect  to  St. 
Anthony  at  all,  but  only  that  he  always  will  go  and  preach  to 
my  gold  fish.  We'll  make  him  do  it  now  to  show  you.  Come 
along,  Tony,  and  give  them  a  sermon,  there's  a  good  little 
kit ! ' 

She  put  him  on  a  side-table,  and  he  at  once  rested  his  front 
paws  on  a  large  glass  bowl  and  peered  down  at  the  gold  fish 
with  great  curiosity. 

'  I  believe  he  would  have  drowned  himself  sooner  or  later, 
like  Gray's  cat,  so  I  daresay  it  is  a  good  thing  for  him  to  leave. 
You  will  be  kind  to  him,  won't  you  ? ' 

Brian  promised  that  he  should  be  well  attended  to,  and, 
indeed,  there  was  little  doubt  that  St.  Anthony  would  from 
that  day  forth  be  lapped  in  luxury.  He  went  away  with  his 
new  master  very  contentedly,  Erica  following  them  to  the  door 
with  farewell  injunctions. 

'  And  you'll  be  sure  to  butter  his  feet  well,  or  else  he  won't 
stay  with  you.     Good-bye,  dear  Tony.     Be  a  good  little  cat ! ' 

Brian  was  pleased  to  have  this  token  from  his  Undine,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  she  cared  much 
more  about  parting  Avith  the  kitten  than  about  saying  good-bye 
to  him.  AVell,  it  was  something  to  have  that  lucky  St. 
Anthony,  who  had  been  fondled  and  kissed.  And  after  all  it 
was  Erica's  very  childishness  and  simplicity  which  made  her  so 
dear  to  him. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight.  Erica,  with  the  thought 
of  the  separation  beginning  to  weigh  u])on  hei',  went  back  to 
her  mother.  They  knew  that  this  was  the  last  quiet  time  they 
should  have  together  for  many  long  months.  But  last  days 
are  not  good  days  for  talking.  They  spoke  very  little.  Every 
now  and  then  Mrs.  Raeburn  would  make  some  inquiry  about 
the  packing  or  the  journey,  or  would  try  to  cheer  the  child  by 
speaking  of  thehome  they  would  have  at  the  end  of  the  two  years. 


erica's  resolve.  53 

But  Erica  was  not  to  be  comforted  ;  a  dull  pain  was  gnawing  at 
her  heart,  and  the  present  was  not  to  be  displaced  by  any 
visions  of  a  golden  future. 

'  If  it  were  not  for  leaving  you  alone,  mother,  I  shoiildn't 
mind  so  mvich,'  she  said,  in  rather  a  choked  voice.  'But  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  have  the  hardest  part  of  all.' 

'  Aunt  Jean  will  be  here,  and  Tom,'  said  Mrs.  Raebum. 

'  Aunt  Jean  is  very  kind,'  said  Erica,  doubtfully.  '  But  she 
doesn't  know  how  to  nurse  people.  Tom  is  the  one  hope,  and 
he  has  promised  always  to  tell  me  the  whole  tiaith  about  you ; 
so,  if  you  get  worse,  I  shall  come  home  directly.' 

'  You  mustn't  gnidge  me  my  share  of  the  work,'  said  Mrs. 
Raebum.  '  It  would  make  me  very  miserable  if  I  did  hinder 
you  or  your  father.' 

Erica  sighed. 

'  You  and  father  are  so  dreadfully  public  spirited !  And 
yet,  oh,  mother !  what  does  the  whole  world  matter  to  me  if  I 
think  you  are  uncomfortable,  and  wretched,  and  alone  T 

'Yon  will  learn  to  think  differently,  dear,  by-and-by,'  said 
her  mother,  kissing  the  eager,  troubled  face.  *  And,  when  you 
fancy  me  lonely,  you  can  picture  me  instead  as  proud  and 
happy  in  thinking  of  my  brave  little  daughter  who  has  gone 
into  exile  of  her  own  accoi'd  to  help  the  cause  of  truth  and 
liberty.' 

They  were  inspiriting  words,  and  they  brought  a  glow  to 
Erica's  face;  she  choked  down  her  own  personal  pain.  No  religious 
martyr  went  throvxgh  the  time  of  trial  more  bravely  than  Luke 
Ptaeburn's  daughter  lived  through  the  next  four  and  twenty 
hours.  She  never  forgot  even  the  most  trivial  incident  of  that 
day,  it  seemed  burnt  in  upon  her  brain.  The  dreary  waking 
on  the  dark  winter  morning,  the  hurried  farewells  to  her  aunt 
and  Tom,  the  last  long  embrace  from  her  mother,  the  drive  to 
the  station,  her  father's  recognition  on  the  platform,  the  rude 
staring  and  ruder  comments  to  which  they  were  subjected,  then 
the  one  supreme  wrench  of  pai'ting,  the  look  of  pain  in  her 
father's  face,  the  trembling  of  his  voice,  the  last  long  look  as 
the  train  moved  off,  and  the  utter  loneliness  of  all  that  followed. 
Then  came  dimmer  recollections,  not  less  real  but  more  con- 
fused :  of  a  merry  set  of  fellow-passengers  who  were  going  to 
enjoy  themselves  in  the  South  of  France ;  of  a  certain  little 
packet  wliich  her  father  had  placed  in  her  hand,  and  which 
pi'oved  to  be  Mill  on  Liberty  ;  of  her  eager  perusal  of  the  first 
two  or  three  chapters ;  of  the  many  instances  of  the  '  tyranny  of 


64  PARIS 

the  majority '  which  she  had  been  able  to  produce,  not  without 
a  certain  satisfaction.  And  afterwards  more  vividly  she  could 
recall  the  last  look  at  En<;land,  the  dreary  amval  at  Boulogne, 
the  long,  weary  railway  journey,  and  the  friendly  reception  at 
Madame  Lemercier's  school.  Ko  one  could  deny  that  her  new 
life  had  been  bravely  begun. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PARIS. 

But  we  wake  in  the  young  morning  when  the  light  is  breaking  forth ; 
And  look  out  on  its  misty  gleams,  as  if  the  noon  were  full ; 
And  the  Infinite  around,  seems  but  a  larger  kind  of  earth 
Ensphering  this,  and  measured  by  the  self-same  handy  rule. 

Hilda  among  the  Broken  Gods. 

Not  unfrequently  the  most  important  years  of  a  life,  the  years 
which  tell  most  on  the  character,  are  unmarked  by  any  notable 
events.  A  steady,  orderly  routine,  a  gradual  progression,  per- 
severance in  hard  work,  often  do  more  to  educate  and  form 
than  a  varied  and  eventful  life.  Erica's  two  years  of  exile  were 
as  monotonous  and  quiet  as  the  life  of  the  secularist's  daughter 
could  possibly  be.  There  came  to  her,  of  course,  from  the 
distance  the  echoes  of  her  father's  strife ;  but  she  was  far 
removed  from  it  all,  and  there  was  little  to  disturb  her  mind  in 
the  quiet  Parisian  school.  There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  her 
uneventful  life,  and  a  very  brief  description  of  her  surroundings 
will  be  sufficient  to  show  the  sort  of  atmosphere  in  which  she 
lived. 

The  school  was  a  large  one,  and  consisted  principally  of 
French  provincial  girls,  sent  to  Paris  to  finish  their  education. 
Some  of  them  Erica  liked  exceedingly  j  every  one  of  them  was 
to  her  a  curious  and  interesting  study.  She  liked  to  hear  them 
talk  about  their  home  life,  and,  above  all  things,  to  hear  their 
simple,  naive  remarks  about  religion.  Of  course  she  was  on  her 
honour  not  to  enter  into  discussions  with  tliem,  and  they  re- 
garded all  English  as  heretics,  and  did  not  trouble  themselves 
to  distinguish  between  the  different  grades.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  her  from  observing  and  listening,  and  with 
some  wonder  she  used  to  hear  discussions  about  the  dresses  for 


PARIS.  66 

the  •  Premifere  Communion,'  remarks  about  the  various  services, 
or  laments  over  the  confession  papers.  The  girls  went  to  con- 
fession once  a-month,  and  there  was  alwaj-s  a  day  in  which  they 
had  to  prepare  and  write  out  their  misdemeanours.  One  day, 
a  little,  thin,  delicate  child  from  the  South  of  France  came  up  to 
Erica  with  her  confession  in  her  hand. 

*  Dear,  good  Erica,'  she  said,  wearily ;  'have  the  kindness 
to  read  this  and  to  correct  my  mistakes.' 

Erica  took  the  little  thing  on  her  knee,  and  began  to  read 
the  paper.  It  was  cviriously  spelt.  Before  very  long  she  came 
to  the  sentence,  '  J''ai  trop  mangeJ 

'  Why,  Ninette,'  exclaimed  Erica,  *  you  hardly  eat  enough 
to  feed  a  sparrow ;  it  is  nonsense  to  piit  that.' 

'  Ah,  but  it  was  a  fast  day,'  siglied  Ninette.  '  And  I  felt 
hungry,  and  did  really  eat  more  than  I  need  have.' 

Erica  felt  half  angry  and  contemptuous,  half  amused,  and 
could  only  hope  that  the  priest  would  see  the  pale,  thin  face 
of  the  little  penitent,  and  realise  the  ludicrousness  of  the 
confession. 

Another  time  all  the  girls  had  been  to  some  special  service ; 
on  their  return  she  asked  what  it  had  been  about. 

'  Oh,'  remarked  a  bright-faced  girl,  '  it  was  about  the  seven 
joys^ — or  the  seven  son'ows — of  Mary.' 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  whether  it  was  very 
solemn  or  very  joyful]'  asked  Erica,  astonished  and  amused. 

'  I  am  really  not  sure,'  said  the  girl,  with  the  most  placid 
good-tempered  indifference. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  Erica 
was  not  favourably  impressed  with  Roman  Catholicism. 

She  was  a  great  favourite  with  all  the  girls ;  but,  though 
she  was  very  patient  and  persevering,  she  did  not  succeed  in 
making  any  of  them  fluent  English  speakers,  and  learnt  their 
language  far  better  than  they  learnt  hers.  Her  three  special 
friends  were  not  among  the  pupils,  but  among  the  teachers. 
Dear  old  Madame  Lemercier,  with  her  good-humoured  black 
eyes,  her  kind  demonstrative  ways,  and  her  delightful  stories 
about  the  time  of  the  war  and  the  siege,  was  a  friend  worth 
having  So  was  her  husband.  Monsieur  Lemercier  the  jour- 
nalist. He  was  a  little  dried-up  man,  with  a  fierce  black 
moustache  ;  he  was  sarcastic  and  w^itty,  and  he  would  talk 
politics  by  the  hour  together  to  any  one  who  would  listen  to 
him,  especially  if  they  would  now  and  then  ask  a  pertinent  and 
intelligent  question  which  gave  him  scope  for  an  oration. 


56  PARIS. 

Erica  made  a  delightful  listener,  for  she  was  always  anxious 
to  Icaru  and  to  understand,  and  before  long  she  was  quite 
au  fait,  and  understood  a  great  deal  about  that  exceedingly 
complicated  thing,  the  Frencli  poHtical  system.  Monsieur 
Lemercier  was  a  fiery,  earnest  little  man,  with  very  strong 
convictions ;  he  had  been  exiled  as  a  Communist  but  had  now 
returned,  and  was  a  very  vigorous  and  impassioned  writer  in 
one  of  the  advanced  Republican  journals.  He  and  his  wife 
became  very  fond  of  Erica,  Madame  Lemercier  loving  her  for 
her  brightness  and  readiness  to  help,  and  monsieur  for  her 
beauty  and  her  quickness  of  perception.  It  was  surprising 
and  gratifying  to  meet  with  a  girl  who,  withoiit  being  Sifemme 
savante  was  yet  capable  of  understanding  the  difterence  be- 
tween the  Extreme  Left  and  the  Left  Centre,  and  who  took  a 
real  interest  in  what  was  passing  in  the  world. 

But  Erica's  greatest  friend  was  a  certain  Fraulein  Sonnen- 
thal,  the  German  governess.  She  was  a  kind-eyed  Hanoverian, 
homely  and  by  no  means  brilliantly  clever,  but  there  was 
something  in  her  unselfishness  and  in  her  unassuming  humility 
that  won  Erica's  heart.  She  never  would  hear  a  word  against 
the  Fraulein. 

'  Why  do  you  care  so  much  for  Fraulein  Sonnenthal  1 '  she 
was  often  asked.     '  She  seems  uninteresting  and  dull  to  us.' 

'  I  love  her  because  she  is  so  good,'  Avas  Erica's  invariable 
reply. 

She  and  the  Fraulein  shared  a  bedroom,  and  many  were 
the  arguments  they  had  together.  The  effect  of  being  sepa- 
rated from  her  o^ti  people  was,  very  naturally,  to  make  Erica 
a  more  devoted  Secularist.  She  was  exceedingly  enthusiastic 
for  what  she  considered  the  truth,  and  not  unfreqiiently 
grieved  and  shocked  the  Lutheran  Fraulein  by  the  vehemence 
of  her  statements.  Very  often  they  would  argue  far  on  into 
the  night;  they  never  quarrelled,  however  hot  the  dispute,  but 
the  Fraulein  often  had  a  sore  time  of  it ;  foi',  naturally,  Luke 
ilaeburu's  daughter  was  well  tip  in  all  the  debateable  points, 
and  she  had,  moreover,  a  good  deal  of  her  father's  rapidity  of 
thought  and  gift  of  speech.  She  was  always  generous,  how- 
ever, and  the  Fraulein  had  in  some  respects  the  advantage  of 
her,  for  they  spoke  in  German. 

One  scene  in  that  little  bedroom  Erica  never  forgot.  They 
had  gone  to  bed  one  Easter  Eve,  and  had  somehow  fallen  into 
a  long  and  stormy  argument  about  the  resurrection  and  the 
doctrine  of  immortality.     Erica,  perhaps  because  she  was  con- 


PARIS.  67 

Bcioxis  of  the  '  -weakness '  she  had  confessed  to  Brian  Osmond, 
argned  very  warmly  on  the  other  side  ;  the  poor  little  Fraulein 
was  grieved  beyond  measure,  and  defended  her  faith  gallantly, 
though  as  she  feared  very  ineffectually.  Her  arguments 
seemed  altogether  extinguished  by  Erica's  remorseless  logic; 
she  was  not  nearly  so  clever,  and  her  very  earnestness  seemed 
to  trip  her  up  and  make  all  her  sentences  broken  and  incom- 
plete. They  discussed  the  subject  till  Erica  was  hoarse,  and  at 
last  from  very  weariness  she  fell  asleep  while  the  Lutheran  was 
giving  her  a  long  quotation  from  St.  Paul. 

She  slept  for  two  or  three  hours  ;  when  she  woke,  the  room 
was  flooded  with  silvery  moonlight,  the  wooden  cross  which 
hung  over  the  German's  bed  stood  out  black  and  distinct,  but 
the  bed  was  empty.  Erica  looked  round  the  room  uneasily, 
and  saw  a  sight  which  she  never  forgot. 

The  Fraulein  was  kneeling  beside  the  window,  and  eA'en  the 
cold  moonlight  could  not  chill  or  hide  the  wonderful  brightness 
of  her  face.  She  was  a  plain,  ordinary  little  woman,  but  her 
face  was  absolutely  transformed;  there  was  something  so 
beautiful  and  yet  so  imusual  in  her  expression  that  Erica  could 
not  speak  or  move,  but  lay  watching  her  almost  breathlessly. 
The  spiritual  world  about  which  they  had  been  speaking  must 
be  very  real  indeed  to  Thekla  Sonnenthal !  Was  it  possible 
that  this  was  the  work  of  delusion'?  While  she  mused,  her 
friend  rose,  came  straight  to  her  bedside,  and  bent  over  her 
with  a  look  of  such  love  and  tenderness  that  Erica,  though  not 
generally  demonstrative,  could  not  resist  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  neck. 

'Dear  Sunnyvale!  you  look  jixst  like  your  name!'  she 
exclaimed,  '  all  brightness  and  humility  !  What  have  you  been 
doing  to  grow  so  like  Murillo's  Madonna  ? ' 

'I  thought  you  Avere  asleep,'  said  the  Fraulein.  'Good- 
night, Herzhldttchen,  or  rather  good-morning,  for  the  Easter  Day 
has  begun.' 

Perhaps  Erica  liked  her  all  the  better  for  saying  nothing 
more  definite,  but  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  she  did 
not  have  a  good  night,  for  long  after  Thekla  Sonnenthal  was 
asleep,  and  dreaming  of  her  German  home,  Luke  Raebuna's 
daughter  lay  awake,  thinking  of  the  faith  which  to  some  Avas 
such  an  intense  reality.  Had  there  been  anything  excited  or 
unreal  about  her  companion's  manner,  she  woxild  not  have 
thought  twice  about  it ;  but  her  tranquillity  and  sweetness 
seemed  to  her  very  remarkable.     Moreover,  Fraulein  Sonnen- 


58  PARIS, 

thai  was  strangely  devoid  of  imagination  ;  she  was  a  matter-of- 
fact  little  person,  not  at  all  a  likely  subject  for  visions  and 
delusions.  Erica  was  perplexed.  Once  more  there  came  to 
lier  that  uncomfortable  question — '  Supposing  Christianity  were 
true  ? ' 

The  moonlight  paled  and  the  Easter  morn  brolce,  and  still 
she  tossed  to  and  fro  liaunted  by  doubts  which  would  not  let 
her  sleep.  But  by-and-by  she  returned  to  the  one  thing  which 
was  absolutely  certain,  namely,  that  her  German  friend  was 
loveablc  and  to  be  loved,  whatever  her  creed. 

And,  since  Erica's  love  was  of  the  practical  order,  it 
prompted  her  to  get  up  early,  dress  noiselessly,  and  steal  out 
of  the  room  without  waking  her  companion  ;  then,  with  all  the 
church  bells  ringing  and  the  devout  citizens  hurrying  to  mass, 
she  ran  to  the  nearest  flower-stall,  spent  one  of  her  very  few 
half -francs  on  the  loveliest  white  rose  to  be  had,  and  carried  it 
back  as  an  Easter  offering  to  the  Fraulein. 

It  was  fortunate  in  every  way  that  Erica  had  the  little 
German  lady  for  her  friend,  for  she  would  often  have  fared 
badly  without  some  one  to  nurse  and  befriend  her. 

She  was  very  delicate,  and  worked  far  too  hard ;  for,  be- 
sides all  her  work  in  the  school,  she  was  preparing  for  an 
English  examination  which  she  had  set  her  heart  on  trying  as 
soon  as  she  went  home.  Had  it  not  been  for  Fraulein  Sonnen- 
thal,  she  would  more  than  once  have  thoroughly  overworked 
herself;  and  indeed  as  it  was,  the  strain  of  that  two  years 
told  severely  on  her  strength. 

But  the  time  wore  on  rapidly,  as  very  fully  occupied  time 
always  does,  and  Erica's  list  of  da3-s  grew  shorter  and  shorter, 
and  the  letters  from  her  mother  were  more  and  more  full  of 
plans  for  the  life  they  would  lead  when  she  came  home.  The 
two  years  would  actually  end  in  January;  Erica  was,  however, 
to  stay  in  Paris  till  the  following  Easter,  partly  to  oblige 
Madame  Lemercier,  partly  because  by  that  time  her  father 
hoped  to  be  in  a  great  measure  free  from  his  embarrassments, 
able  once  more  t)  make  a  home  for  her. 


WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT.  69 

CHAPTER  VII. 

WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT. 

A.  voice  grows  with  the  growing  years  ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and  hears, 

'  The  Eesurrection  and  the  Life  am  I.' 

0  Love  Divine, — whose  constant  beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see. 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 

Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from  Thee  ! 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  Thou  know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  Thy  favours  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of  all. 

WniTTIER. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  New  Year,  and  great  excitement  pre- 
vailed in  the  Lemerciers'  house.  Many  of  the  girls  whose 
homes  were  at  a  distance  had  remained  at  school  for  the  short 
"winter  holiday,  and  on  this  particular  afternoon  a  number  of 
them  were  clustered  round  the  stove  talking  abovit  the  fes- 
tivities of  the  morrow  and  the  presents  they  were  likely  to 
have. 

Erica,  who  was  now  a  tall  and  very  pretty  girl  of  eighteen, 
was  sitting  on  the  hearthrug  with  Ninette  on  her  lap  ;.  she  was 
in  very  high  spirits,  and  kept  the  little  group  in  perpetual 
liughter,  so  much  so  indeed  that  Fraulein  Sonnenthal  had 
more  than  once  been  obliged  to  interfere,  and  do  her  best  to 
quiet  them. 

'How  wild  thou  art,  dear  Erica  !'  she  exclaimed.  'What 
isitr 

'  I  am  happy,  that  is  all,'  said  Erica.  '  You  would  be 
happy  if  the  year  of  freedom  were  just  dawning  for  you.  Tliree 
months  more  and  I  shall  be  home  !' 

She  was  like  a  child  in  her  exultant  happiness,  far  more 
child-like,  indeed,  than  the  grave  little  Ninette  whom  she  was 
nursing. 

'  Thou  art  not  dignified  enough  for  a  teacher,'  said  the 
Fraulein,  laughingly. 

'  She  is  no  teacher,'  cried  the  girls.  '  It  is  holiday  time, 
and  she  need  not  talk  that  frightful  English.' 


60  WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAH  BROUGHT. 

Erica  made  a  laughing  defence  of  her  native  tongue,  and 
such  a  babel  ensued  that  the  Fraulcin  had  to  interfere  again. 

*  Licbe  Erica  !  Thou  art  beside  thyself  !  What  has  come 
to  thee  ]' 

'Only  joy,  dear  Thekla,  at  the  thought  of  the  beautiful 
Now  Year  -which  is  coming,'  cried  Erica.  '  Father  would  say  I 
was  "  fey,"  and  should  pay  for  all  this  fun  with  a  bad  headache 
or  some  misfortune.  Come,  give  me  the  French  David  Copper- 
HeU,  and  let  me  read  you  how  "  Barkis  veut  bien,"  and  "  Mrs. 
Cummidge  a  pense  de  I'ancien." ' 

The  reading  was  more  cxq\iisitely  ludicrous  to  Erica  herself 
than  to  her  hearers.  Still  the  wit  of  Charles  Dickens,  even 
when  translated,  called  forth  peals  of  laugliter  from  the  French 
girls,  too.  It  was  the  brightest,  happiest  little  group  imagin- 
able ;  pci'haps  it  was  scarcely  wonderful  that  old  Madame 
Lemercier,  when  she  came  to  break  it  up,  should  find  her  eyes 
dim  Avith  tears. 

'  My  dear  Erica '  she  said,  and  broke  off"  abruptly. 

Erica  looked  up  with  laughing  eyes. 

'  Don't  scold,  dear  madame,'  she  said,  coaxingly.  *  We  have 
been  very  noisy ;  but  it  is  New  Year's  Eve,  and  we  are  so 
happy.' 

'  Dear  child,  it  is  not  that,'  said  madame.  *  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  for  a  minute  ;  come  with  me,  cherie.' 

Still  Erica  noticed  nothing  ;  did  not  detect  the  tone  of  pity, 
did  not  wonder  at  the  terms  of  endearment  Avhich  wei'e  gene- 
rally reserved  for  more  private  use.  She  followed  madame 
into  the  hall,  still  chattering  gaily. 

'The  David  Copperfield  is  for  monsieur's  present  to-morrow,' 
she  said,  laughingly.  '  I  knew  he  was  too  lazy  to  read  it  in 
English,  so  I  got  him  a  translation.' 

'  ;My  dear,'  said  madame,  taking  her  hand,  '  try  to  be  quiet 
a  moment.  I — I  have  something  to  tell  you.  ^ly  poor  little 
one,  monsieur  your  father  is  arrived  ' 

'Father!  father  here!'  exclaimed  Erica,  in  a  transport  of 
delight  'Where  is  he,  where'?  Oh,  madame,  why  didn't  you 
tell  mc  sooner?' 

Madame  Lemercier  tried  in  vain  to  detain  her,  as  with 
cheeks  all  glowing  with  happiness  and  dancing  eyes,  she  ran  at 
full  speed  to  the  salon. 

'Father!'  she  cried,  throwing  open  the  door  and  ninning 
to  meet  liim.  Then  suddenly  she  stood  quite  still  as  if 
petrified. 


WHAT  THE  NEW  TEAR  BROUGHT.  61 

Beside  the  crackling  wood  fire,  his  arms  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  his  face  hidden,  stood  a  gray-haired  man.  He  raised 
himself  as  she  spoke.  His  news  was  in  his  face  ;  it  was  written 
all  too  plainly  there.' 

*  Father  ! '  gasped  Erica,  in  a  voice  which  seemed  altogether 
different  from  the  first  exclamation,  almost  as  if  it  belonged  to 
a  diff"erent  person. 

Raeburn  took  her  in  his  arms. 

'  My  child — my  poor  little  Eric  ! '  he  said. 

She  did  not  speak  a  word,  but  clung  to  him  as  though  to 
keep  herself  from  falling.  In  one  instant  it  seemed  as  though 
her  whole  world  had  been  wrecked,  her  life  shattered.  She 
could  not  even  realise  that  her  father  was  still  left  to  her, 
except  in  so  far  as  the  mere  bodily  support  was  concerned. 
He  was  strong  ;  she  clung  to  him  as  in  a  hurricane  she  would 
have  clung  to  a  rock. 

'  Say  it,'  she  gasped,  £>fter  a  timeless  silence,  perhaps  of 
minutes,  perhaps  of  hom-s,  it  might  have  been  centuries  for 
aught  she  knew.     '  Say  it  in  words.' 

She  wanted  to  know  everything,  wanted  to  reduce  this 
huge,  overwhelming  sorrow  to  somethmg  intelligible.  Surely 
in  words  it  would  not  be  so  awful — so  limitless. 

And  he  said  it,  speaking  in  a  low,  repressed  voice,  yet  very 
tenderly,  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child.  She  made  a  great 
effort  to  listen,  but  the  sentences  only  came  to  her  disjointedly, 
and  as  if  from  a  great  distance.  It  had  been  very  sudden — 
a  two  hours'  illness,  no  very  great  suffering.  He  had  been 
lecturing  at  Birmingham — had  been  telegraphed  for — had  been 
too  late. 

Erica  made  a  desperate  effort  to  realise  it  all ;  at  last  she 
brought  down  the  measureless  agony  to  actual  words,  repeating 
them  over  and  over  to  herself — '  Mother  is  dead.' 

At  length  she  had  grasped  the  idea  !  Her  heart  seemed  to 
die  within  her,  a  strange  blue  shade  passed  over  her  face,  her 
limbs  stiffened.  She  felt  her  father  carry  her  to  the  window, 
was  perfectly  conscious  of  everything,  watched  as  in  a  dream 
whilst  he  wrenched  open  the  clumsy  fastening  of  the  casement, 
heard  the  voices  in  the  street  below,  heard,  too,  in  the  distance 
the  sound  of  church  bells,  was  vaguely  conscious  of  relief  aa 
the  cold  air  blew  upon  her. 

She  was  lying  on  a  couch,  and,  if  left  to  herself,  might  have 
lain  there  for  hours  in  that  strange  state  of  absolute  prostra- 
tion.    But  she  was  not  alone,  and  gi-adaally  she  realised  it. 


62  WIIAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BliOUGHT. 

Very  slowly  the  re-beginning  of  life  set  in ;  the  consciousness 
of  her  fixther's  presence  awakened  her,  as  it  Avere,  from  her 
droam  of  unmitigated  pain.  She  sat  \ip,  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  kissed  liim;  then  for  a  minute  let  her  aching 
head  rest  on  his  shoulder.  Presently,  in  a  low  but  steady 
voice,  she  said,  '  What  would  you  like  me  to  do,  father]' 

*  To  come  home  ■with  me  now  if  you  are  able,'  he  said  ;  *  to- 
morrow morning,  though,  if  you  would  rather  wait,  dear.' 

But  the  idea  of  Avaiting  seemed  intolerable  to  her.  The 
very  sound  of  the  word  was  hateful.  Had  slie  not  waited  two 
weary  years,  and  this  was  the  end  of  it  all  ]  Any  action,  any 
present  doing,  however  painful,  but  no  more  waiting  !  No 
terrible  pause  in  which  more  thoughts  and,  therefore,  moi'e 
pain  might  grow  !  Outside  in  the  passage  they  met  Madame 
Lemercier,  and  presently  Erica  found  herself  surrounded  by 
kind  helpers,  wondering  to  find  them  all  so  tearful  when  her 
own  eyes  felt  so  hot  and  dry.  They  were  very  good  to  her ; 
but,  separated  from  her  father,  her  sorrow  again  completely 
overwhelmed  her ;  she  could  not  then  feel  the  slightest  grati- 
tude to  them  or  the  slightest  comfort  from  their  sympathy. 
She  lay  motionless  on  her  little  white  bed,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  wooden  cross  on  the  opposite  wall,  or  from  time  to  time 
glancing  at  Fraulein  Sonncnthal,  who,  with  little  Ninette  to 
help,  was  busily  packing  her  trunk.  And  all  the  while  she 
said  again  and  again  the  words  which  summed  up  her  sorrow, 
•  Mother  is  dead  !     Mother  is  dead  I ' 

After  a  time  her  eyes  fell  on  her  elaborately-drawn  paper 
of  days.  Every  evening  since  her  first  arrival  she  had  gone 
through  the  almost  religious  ceremony  of  marking-off  the  day  ; 
it  had  often  been  a  great  consolation  to  her.  The  paper  was 
much  worn ;  the  weeks  and  days  yet  to  be  marked  were  few 
in  number.  She  looked  at  it  now,  and  if  there  can  be  a  '  more  ' 
to  absolute  grief,  an  additional  pang  to  unmitigated  sorrow,  it 
came  to  her  at  the  sight  of  that  visible  record  of  her  long 
exile.  She  snatched  down  the  paper  and  tore  it  to  pieces  ;  then 
sank  back  again,  pale  and  breatliless.  Fraulein  Sonncnthal  saw 
and  understood.     She  came  to  her,  and  kissed  her. 

'  Herzbliittchen,'  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  and,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  '  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott.' 

Erica  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  turned  away  her 
*head. 

'  Why  does  she  choose  this  time  of  all  others  to  tell  me 
80,'  she  thought  to  herself.     '  Now,  when  I  can't  argue  or  even 


WHAT  TUB  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT.  63 

think  !  A  sure  towei* !  Could  a  delusion  make  one  feel  that 
anything  is  sure  but  death  at  such  a  time  as  this  !  Everything 
is  gone — or  going.  Mother  is  dead  ! — mother  is  dead  !  Yet 
she  meant  to  be  kind,  poor  Thckla,  she  didn't  know  it  "would 
hurt.' 

Madame  Lemercier  came  into  the  room  with  a  eup  of  coffee 
and  a  hrioche. 

'You  have  a  long  journey  before  you,  my  little  one,'  she 
said  ;  *  you  must  take  this  before  you  start.' 

Yes,  thei-e  was  the  journey  !  that  was  a  comfort.  There  was 
something  to  be  done,  something  hard  and  tiring — surely  it 
would  blunt  her  perceptions  !  She  started  up  with  a  strange 
sort  of  energy,  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  swallowed  the  food 
with  an  effort,  helped  to  lock  her  tnmk,  moved  rapidly  about 
the  room,  looking  for  any  chance  possession  which  might  have 
been  left  out.  There  was  such  terrible  anguish  in  her  tearless 
eyes  that  little  Ninette  shrank  away  from  her  in  alarm. 
Madame  Lemercier,  who  in  the  time  of  the  siege  had  seen 
great  suffering,  had  never  seen  anything  like  this  ;  even  Thekla 
Sonnenthal  realised  that  for  the  time  she  was  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  comfort. 

Before  long  the  farewells  were  over.  Erica  was  once  more 
alone  with  her  father,  her  cheeks  wet  with  the  tears  of  others, 
her  own  eyes  still  hot  and  dry.  They  were  to  catch  the  four 
o'clock  train ;  the  afternoon  was  dark,  and  already  the  streets 
and  shops  were  lighted  ;  Paris,  ever  bright  and  gay,  seemed 
to  night  brighter  and  gayer  than  ever.  She  watched  the  placid- 
looking  passengers,  the  idle  loungers  at  the  cafes  ;  did  they 
know  what  pain  was  ?  Did  they  know  that  death  was  sure  1 
Presently  she  found  herself  in  a  second-class  carriage,  wedged- 
in  between  her  father  and  a  heavy-featured  priest,  who  diligently 
read  a  little  dogs'-eared  breviary.  Opposite  was  a  meek,  weasel- 
faced  bourgeois,  with  a  managing  wife,  who  ordered  him  about ; 
then  came  a  bushy-whiskered  Englishman  and  a  newly-married 
couple,  while  in  the  further  corner,  nearly  hidden  from  view  by 
the  burly  priest,  lurked  a  gentle-looking  Sister  of  Mercy,  and  a 
mischievous  and  fidgety  schoolboy.  She  watched  them  all  as 
in  a  dream  of  pain.  Presently  the  priest  left-off  muttering  and 
began  to  snore,  and  sleep  fell,  too,  upon  the  occupants  of  the 
ojjposite  seat.  The  little  weasel-faced  man  looked  most  \\n- 
comfortable,  for  the  Englishman  used  him  as  a  prop  on  one  side 
and  the  managing  wife  nearly  overwhelmed  him  on  the  other ; 
he  slept  fitfully,  and  always  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  waking 


64  WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT. 

up  every  few  minutes  and  vainly  trying  to  shake  oS"  his 
burdens,  who  invariably  made  stifled  exclamations  and  sank 
back  again, 

'  That  would  have  been  funny  once,'  thought  Erica  to  herself. 
'  How  I  should  have  laughed.  Shall  I  always  be  like  this  all 
the  rest  of  my  life,  seeing  what  is  ludicrous,  yet  with  all  the 
fun  taken  out  of  it  ?' 

But  her  braiu  reeled  at  the  thought  of  the  '  rest  of  lifi.' 
The  blank  of  bereavement,  terrible  to  aU,  was  absolute  and 
eternal  to  her,  and  this  was  her  first  gi-eat  sorrow.  She  had 
known  pain,  and  privatiou,  and  trouble,  and  anxiety,  but  actual 
anguish  never.  Now  it  had  come  to  her,  suddenly,  irrevocably, 
never  to  be  either  more  or  less ;  perhaps  to  be  fitted  ou  as  a 
garment  as  time  wore  on,  and  to  become  a  natural  part  of  her 
life ;  but  always  to  be  the  same,  a  blank  often  felt,  always 
])resent,  till  at  length  her  end  came  and  she  too  passed  away 
into  the  gi'eat  Silence. 

Despair — the  deprivation  of  all  hope — is  sometimes  wild, 
but  oftener  calm  with  a  deathly  calmness.  Erica  was  abso- 
lutely still, — she  scarcely  moved  or  spoke  during  the  long  weary 
journey  to  Calais.  Twice  only  did  she  feel  the  sli;<htest  desire 
for  any  outward  vent.  At  the  Amiens  station  the  schoolboy 
in  the  corner,  who  had  been  gi'owing  more  restless  and  excited 
every  hour,  sprang  from  the  carriage  to  greet  a  small  crowd 
of  relations  who  were  waiting  to  welcome  him.  She  saw  him 
rush  to  his  mother,  heard  a  confused,  affectionate  Babel  of 
inquiries,  congratulations,  laughter.  Oh  !  to  think  of  that 
happy  light-heartedncss  and  the  contrast  between  it  and  her 
grief.  The  laughter  seemed  positively  to  cut  her ;  she  could 
have  screamed  from  sheer  pain.  And,  as  if  cruel  contrasts 
were  fated  to  confront  her,  no  sooner  had  her  fatlier  established 
her  in  the  cabin  on  board  the  steamer,  than  two  brightdooking 
English  girls  settled  themselves  close  by,  and  began  chatting 
merrily  about  the  New  Year  and  the  novel  beginning  it  Avouhl 
be  on  board  a  Channel  steamer.  Erica  tried  to  stop  her  ears 
that  she  might  not  hear  the  discussion  of  all  the  forthcoming 
gaieties :  '  Lady  Reedham's  dance  on  Thursday,  our  own,  you 
know,  next  week,'  &c.  <kc.  But  slie  could  not  shut  out  the 
sound  of  the  merry  voices,  or  that  wounding  laughter. 

Presently  an  exclamation  made  her  look  and  listen. 

*  Hark  !'  said  one  of  her  fellow-passengeiu  'We  shall  start 
now  ;  I  hear  the  clock  striking  twelve.  A  happy  New  Year 
to  you,  Lily,  and  all  possible  good  fortune.' 


WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT.  65 

'  ETappy  New  Year  !'  echoed  from  different  corners  of  the 
cabin  ;  the  little  Sister  of  Mercy  knelt  down  and  told  her  beads, 
the  rest  of  the  passengers  talked,  congratulated,  laughed.  Erica 
would  have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  cry,  but  she  coiild  not. 
The  terrible  mockery  of  her  surroundings  was  too  great,  how- 
ever, to  be  borne  ;  her  heart  seemed  Uke  ice,  her  head  like  fire, 
with  a  sort  of  feverish  strength  she  rushed  out  of  the  cabin, 
stumbled  up  the  companion,  and  ran  as  if  by  instinct  to 
that  pai't  of  the  deck  where  a  tall,  solitary  figure  stood  up 
darkly  iu  the  dim  light. 

'It's  too  cold  for  you,  my  child,'  said  Raeburn,  turning 
round  at  her  approach. 

'  Oh,  father,  let  mc  stay  with  you,'  sobbed  Erica,  '  I  can't 
bear  it  alone.' 

Perhaps  he  was  glad  to  have  her  near  him  for  his  own 
sake,  perhaps  he  recognised  the  truth  to  which  she  unconsciously 
testified  that  human  nature  does  at  times  cry  out  for  something 
other  than  self,  stronger  and  higher. 

He  raised  no  more  objections,  they  listened  in  silence  till 
the  sound  of  the  church  bells  died  away  in  the  distance,  and 
then  he  found  a  more  sheltered  seat  and  wrapped  her  up  closely 
in  his  own  plaid,  and  together  they  began  their  new  year.  The 
first  lull  in  Erica's  pain  came  in  that  midnight  crossing ;  the 
heaving  of  the  boat,  the  angry  dashing  of  tlie  waves,  the  foam- 
laden  wind,  all  seemed  to  relieve  her.  Above  all,  there  was 
comfort  in  the  strong  protecting  arm  round  her.  Yet  she  was 
too  crushed  and  numb  to  be  able  to  wish  for  anything  but  that 
the  end  might  come  for  her  thei-e,  that  together  they  might 
sink  down  into  the  painless  silence  of  death. 

Raeburn  only  spoke  once  throughout  the  passage,  instinct- 
ively he  knew  what  was  passing  in  Erica's  mind.  He  spoke 
the  only  word  of  comfort  which  he  had  to  speak  :  a  noble  one, 
though  just  then  very  insufficient  : 

'  There  is  work  to  be  done.' 

Then  came  the  dreary  landing  in  the  middle  of  the  dark 
winter's  night,  and  presently  they  were  again  in  a  railway 
carriage,  but  this  time  alone.  Raeburn  made  her  lie  down,  and 
himself  fell  asleep  in  the  opposite  corner  ;  he  had  been  travel- 
ling miinteiTuptedly  for  twenty  hoin-s,  had  received  a  shock 
which  had  tried  him  very  greatly,  now  from  sheer  exhaustion 
he  slept.  But  Erica,  to  whom  the  grief  was  more  new,  could 
not  sleep.  Every  minute  the  pain  of  realisation  grew  keener. 
Here  she  was  in  England  once  more,  this  was  the  journey  she 
had  so  often  thought  of  and  planned.  This  was  going  liome  ! 
4 


66  WHAT  THE  KEW  YEAR  BROUGHT. 

Oh,  the  dreariness  of  the  reahty  when  compared  with  those 
bright  expectations  !  And  yet  it  Avas  neitlier  tliis  thought  nor 
the  actual  fact  of  her  mother's  death  which  first  brought  the 
tears  to  her  burning  eyes. 

AVearily  shifting  her  position,  she  looked  across  to  the  other 
side  of  the  carriage,  and  saw,  as  if  in  a  picture,  her  father. 
Raeburn  was  a  comparatively  young  man,  very  little  over  forty; 
but  his  anxieties  and  the  almost  incredible  amount  of  hard 
work  of  the  past  two  years  had  told  upon  him,  and  had  turned 
his  hair  grey.  There  was  something  in  his  stern  set  face,  in 
tlie  strong  man's  reserved  grief,  in  the  pose  of  his  grand-looking 
head,  dignified  even  in  exhaustion,  that  was  strangely  pathetic. 
Erica  scarcely  seemed  to  realise  that  he  was  her  father.  It 
was  more  as  if  she  were  gazing  at  some  scene  on  the  stage,  or 
on  a  wonderfully  graphic  and  heart-stirring  picture.  The  pathos 
and  sadness  of  it  took  hold  of  her ;  she  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears,  turned  her  face  from  the  light,  and  cried  as  if  no  power 
on  earth  could  ever  stop  hei",  her  long-drawn  sobs  allowed  to 
go  unchecked  since  the  noise  of  the  train  made  them  inaudible. 
!She  was  so  little  given  to  tears,  as  a  rule,  that  now  they 
positively  frightened  her,  nor  could  she  understand  how,  with 
a  real  and  terrible  grief  for  which  she  could  not  weep,  the 
mere  pathetic  sight  should  have  brought  down  her  tears  like 
rain.  But  the  outburst  brought  relief  with  it,  for  it  left  her 
so  exhausted  that  for  a  brief  half-hour  she  slept,  and  awoke 
just  before  they  reached  Loudon,  Avith  such  a  frightful  head- 
ache that  the  physical  pain  numbed  the  mental. 

'  How  soon  shall  we  be '  home  she  would  have  said,  but 

the  word  choked  her.  'How  soon  shall  we  get  there  I'  she 
asked,  faintly.  She  was  so  ill,  so  Aveary,  that  the  mere  thought 
of  being  still  again — even  in  the  death-visited  home — Avas  a 
relief,  and  she  Avas  really  too  miich  AA'orn  out  to  feel  very 
acutely    Avhile   they    droA'e   through   the  familiar  streets. 

At  last,  early  in  the  cold,  new-year's  morning,  they  Avere  set 
down  in  Guilford  Square,  at  the  grim  entrance  to  '  Pei'secutioa 
Alley.'  She  looked  round  at  the  grey  old  houses  with  a 
shudder  ;  then  her  fatlier  drcAV  her  arm  Avithin  his,  and  led 
her  doAA'n  the  dreary  little  cul-de-sac.  There  A\'a.s  the  house, 
looking  the  same  as  ever,  and  there  was  Aunt  Jean  coming 
forward  to  meet  them,  Avith  a  strange  new  tenderness  in  her 
voice  and  look,  and  there  A\'as  Tom  in  the  backgnnnid,  seeming 
half  shy  and  afraid  to  meet  her  in  her  grief,  and  there,  above 
all,  was  the  one  great  eternal  void. 

To  watch  beside  the  dying  must  be  anguish,  and  yet  surely 


WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT.  67 

not  such  keen  anguish  as  to  have  missed  the  last  moments, 
the  last  farewells,  the  last  chance  of  sex'ving.  For  those  who 
have  to  come  back  to  the  empty  hoiise,  the  home  which 
never  can  be  home  again,  may  God  comfort  them — no  one  else 
can. 

Stillness,  and  food,  and  brief  snatches  of  sleep  somewhat 
restored  Erica.  Late  in  the  afternoon  she  was  strong  enougli 
to  go  into  her  mother's  room,  for  that  last  look  so  inexpressibly 
painful  to  all,  so  entirely  void  of  hope  or  comfort  to  those  who 
believe  in  no  hereafter.  Not  even  the  peacefulness  of  death 
was  there  to  give  even  a  slight,  a  momentai-y  relief  to  her  pain; 
she  scarcely  even  recognised  her  mother.  Was  that,  indeed, 
all  that  was  leff?  that  pale,  rigid,  utterly  changed  face  and 
form  ]  Was  that  her  mother  1  Could  that  once  have  been  her 
mother  1  Very  often  had  she  heard  this  great  change  wrought 
by  death  referred  to  in  discussions;  she  knew  well  the  arguments 
which  were  brought  forward  by  the  believers  in  immortality, 
the  counter  arguments  with  which  her  fether  invariably  met 
them,  and  which  had  always  seemed  to  her  conclusive.  But 
somehow  that  which  seemed  satisfactory  in  the  lecture-hall  did 
not  answer  in  the  room  of  death.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to 
flow  out  into  one  longing  question :  Might  there  not  be  a 
Beyond — an  Unseen  1     Was  this  world  indeed  only 

'  A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  an  hour, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it '?' 

She  had  slept  in  the  afternoon,  but  at  night,  when  all  was 
still,  she  could  not  sleep.  The  question  still  lurked  in  her 
mind ;  her  sorrow  and  loneliness  grew  almost  unbearable.  She 
thought  if  she  could  only  make  herself  cry  again  perhaps  she 
might  sleep,  and  she  took  down  a  book  about  Giordano  Bruno, 
and  read  the  account  of  his  martyrdom,  an  account  which 
always  moved  her  very  much.  But  to-night  not  even  the 
description  of  the  valiant  unshrinking  martyr  of  Freethought 
ascending  the  scaffold  to  meet  his  doom  could  in  the  slightest 
degree  affect  hex\  She  tried  another  book,  this  time  Dickens' 
Tale  of  Two  Cities.  She  had  never  read  the  last  two  chapters 
without  feeling  a  great  desire  to  cry  ;  but  to-night  she  read  with 
perfect  unconcern  of  Sydney  Carton's  wanderings  through  Paris 
on  the  night  before  he  gave  himself  up, — read  the  last  marvel- 
lously-written scene  without  the  slightest  emotion.  It  was 
evidently  no  use  to  tiy  anything  else  ;  she  shut  the  book,  put 
out  her  caudle,  and  once  more  lay  down  in  the  dark. 


68  WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BIIOUGIIT. 

Then  she  began  to  think  of  the  words  wiiich  had  so  per- 
sistently hannted  Sidney  Cai-ton,  *  I  am  the  ResuiTcction  and 
the  Life.'  She,  too,  seemed  to  be  wandering  about  the  Parisian 
streets,  hearing  these  words  over  and  over  again.  She  knew 
that  it  was  Jesus  of  Nazareth  who  had  said  this.  What  an 
assertion  it  was  for  a  man  to  make  !  It  was  not  even  '  I  hriyig 
the  resurrection '  or  '  I  give  the  resurrection,'  but  '  I  am  the 
Resurrection  !'  And  yet,  according  to  her  father,  his  humility 
had  been  excessive,  cai-ried  almost  to  a  fault.  Was  he  the 
most  iuconsisteut  man  that  ever  lived,  or  what  was  he  1  At 
last  she  thought  she  would  get  up  and  see  whether  there  was 
any  qualifying  context,  and  when  and  where  he  had  uttered 
this  tremendous  saying. 

Lighting  her  candle  she  crept,  a  little  shivering,  white-robed 
figure,  round  the  book-lined  room,  scanning  the  titles  on  every 
shelf,  but  Bibles  were  too  much  in  use  in  that  house  to  be 
relegated  to  the  attics,  she  found  only  the  least  interesting 
and  least  serviceable  of  her  father's  books.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  down  to  the  study  ;  so  wrapping  herself  up, 
for  it  was  a  freezing  winter's  night,  she  went  noiselessly  down- 
stairs, and  soon  found  every  possible  facility  for  biblical  re- 
search. 

A  little  baffled  and  even  disappointed  to  find  the  Avoi'ds  in 
that  which  she  regai'ded  as  the  least  authentic  of  the  gospels, 
she  still  resolved  to  read  the  account ;  she  read  it,  indeed,  in 
two  or  three  translations,  and  compai'cd  each  closely  with  the 
others,  but  in  all  the  words  stood  out  in  uncompromising  great- 
ness of  assertion.  This  man  claimed  to  be  the  resurrection,  or 
as  Wyclif  had  it,  the  '  agen  risyng  and  lyf.' 

And  then  poor  Erica  read  on  to  the  end  of  the  story  and 
was  quite  thrown  back  upon  herself  by  the  account  of  the 
miracle  which  followed.  It  was  a  beautiful  story,  she  said  to 
herself,  poetically  written,  graphically  described,  but  as  to 
believing  it  to  be  true,  she  could  as  soon  have  accepted  the 
'Midsummer  Night's  Dream'  as  having  actually  taken  place. 

Shivering  with  cold  she  put  the  books  back  on  tJieir  shelf, 
and  stole  upstairs  once  more  to  bear  her  cotofortless  sorrow  as 
best  she  could. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

*  WHY  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT  V 

Then  the  round  of  weary  duties,  cold  and  formal,  camt  to  meet  her, 
With  the  life  within  departed  that  had  given  them  each  a  soul ; 
And  her  sick  heart  even  slighted  gentle  words  that  came  to  greet  her, 
For  grief  spread  its  shadowy  pinions  like  a  blight  upon  the  whole. 

A.  A.  Procter. 

The  winter  sunshine  which  glanced  in  a  side-long,  half-und-half 
■way  into  '  Persecution  Alley,'  and  struggled  in  at  the  closed 
blinds  of  Erica's  little  attic,  streamed  unchecked  into  a  far  more 
cheerful  room  in  Gviilford  Square,  and  illumined  a  breakfast- 
table,  at  which  was  seated  one  occupant  only,  apparently  making 
a  late  and  rather  hasty  meal.  He  was  a  man  of  about  eight 
and  twenty,  and  though  he  was  not  absolutely  good-looking,  his 
face  was  one  which  people  turned  to  look  at  again,  not  so  much 
because  it  was  in  any  way  striking  as  far  as  features  went,  but 
because  of  an  unusual  luminousness  which  pervaded  it.  The 
eyes,  which  were  dark  grey,  were  peculiarly  expressive,  and 
their  softness,  which  might  to  some  have  seemed  a  trifle  un- 
masculine,  was  counterbalanced  by  the  straight,  dark,  noticeable 
eyebrows,  as  well  as  by  a  thoroughly  manly  bearing  and  a 
general  impression  of  unfailing  energy  which  characterised  the 
whole  man.  His  hair,  short  beard,  and  moustache  were  of  a 
deep  nut-brown.  He  was  of  medium  height  and  very  mxiscular- 
looking. 

On  the  whole  it  Avas  as  pleasant  a  face  as  you  would  often 
meet  with,  and  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  his  old  grand- 
mother looked  up  pretty  frequently  from  her  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  and  watched  him  with  that  beautiful  loving  pride  which  in 
the  aged  never  seems  exaggerated  and  very  rarely  misplaced. 

'You  were  out  very  late,  were  you  not,  Brian?'  she  ob- 
served, letting  her  knitting-needles  rest  fur  a  minute,  and 
scrutinising  the  rather  weary- looking  man. 

'  Till  half-past  five  this  morning,'  he  replied,  in  a  somewhat 
preoccupied  voice. 

There  was  a  sad  look  in  his  eyes,  too,  which  his  gi-and- 
mother  partly  undei'stood.  She  knitted  another  round  of  her 
sock  and  then  said, 

'  Have  you  seen  Tom  Craigie  yet?' 


70  WHY  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT  ] 

'  Yes,  last  night  I  came  across  him,' replied  Brian.  *  lie 
told  me  she  had  come  home.  They  travelled  by  night  and  got 
in  early  ycstci'day  morning.' 

'Poor  little  thing!'  sighed  old  iliu  Osmond.  'What  a 
home-coming  it  must  have  been  V 

*  Grannie,'  said  Brian,  pushing  back  his  chair  and  drawing 
nearer  to  the  fire,  'I  uant  you  to  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do. 
I  have  a  message  to  her  from  her  mother,  there  was  no  one 
else  to  take  it,  you  know,  except  the  landlady,  and  I  siippose 
she  did  not  like  that.  I  want  to  know  when  I  miglit  see  her; 
one  has  no  right  to  keep  it  back,  and  yet  how  am  I  to  know 
whether  she  is  fit  to  bear  it  ?  I  can't  write  it  down,  it  won't 
somehow  go  on  to  paper,  yet  I  can  hardly  ask  to  see  her.' 

'  We  cannot  tell  that  the  message  might  not  comfort  her,' 
said  Mrs.  Osmond.  Then  after  a  few  minutes'  thought  she 
added,  '  I  think,  Brian,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  write  her  a  little 
note,  tell  her  why  you  want  to  see  her,  and  let  her  fix  her  own 
time.  You  will  leave  it  entirely  in  her  own  hands  in  that 
way.' 

He  mused  for  a  minute,  seemed  satisfied  with  the  sug- 
gestion, and,  moving  across  to  the  writing-table,  began  his 
first  letter  to  his  love.  Apparently  it  was  hard  to  write,  for 
he  wasted  several  sheets,  and  much  time  that  he  could  ill 
afford.     When  it  was  at  length  finished,  it  ran  as  follows  : — 

*  Dear  Miss  Raeburn, 

'  I  hardly  like  to  ask  to  see  yo\i  yet  for  fear 
you  should  tliink  me  intrusive,  but  a  message  was  intrusted  to 
me  on  Tuesday  night  which  I  dare  not  of  myself  keep  back 
from  you.  V^'Wl  you  see  me  ?  If  you  are  able  to,  and  will 
name  the  time  which  will  suit  you  best,  I  shall  be  very 
grateful     Forgive  me  for  troubling  you,  and  believe  me, 

'  Yours  faithfully, 

'  Brian  Osmond.' 

He  sent  it  off  a  little  doubtfully,  by  no  means  satisfied  that 
he  had  done  a  wise  thing.  But  when  he  returned  from  hia 
rounds  later  in  the  day  tlie  rojdy  set  his  fcai'S  at  rest. 

It  Avas  written  lengthways  across  a  sheet  of  paper :  the 
small  delicate  writing  was  full  of  character,  but  betrayed  great 
physical  exhaustion. 

'  It  is  good  of  you  to  think  of  us.  Please  come  this  after- 
noon if  you  arc  able.  ,  Erica  ' 


WHY  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT?  71 

That  very  afternoon  !  Now  that  his  wish  was  granted,  now 
that  he  was  indeed  to  see  her,  Brian  would  have  given  worlds 
to  have  postponed  the  meeting.  He  was  well  accustomed  to 
visiting  sorrow-stricken  people,  but  from  meeting  such  son-ow 
as  that  in  the  Raeburns'  house  he  shrank  back  feeling  his  in- 
svifficiency.  Besides,  what  words  were  delicate  enough  to  con- 
vey all  that  had  passed  in  that  death-scene  1  How  could  he 
dare  to  attempt  in  speech  all  that  the  dying  mother  would  fain 
have  had  conveyed  to  her  child  ?  And  then  his  owti  love  ! 
Would  not  that  be  the  greatest  difficulty  of  all  1  Feeling  her 
grief  as  he  did,  could  he  yet  modify  his  manner  to  suit  that  of 
a  mere  outsider — almost  a  stranger  1  He  was  very  diffident ; 
though  longing  to  see  Erica,  he  would  yet  have  given  anything 
to  be  able  to  transfer  his  work  to  his  father.  This,  however, 
was  of  course  impossible. 

Strange  though  it  might  seem,  he — the  most  unsuitable  of 
all  men  in  his  own  eyes — was  the  man  singled  out  to  bear  this 
message,  to  go  to  the  death-visited  household.  He  went  about 
his  afternoon  Avork  in  a  sort  of  steady,  mechanical  manner,  the 
outward  veil  of  his  inward  agitation.  About  four  o'clock  he 
was  free  to  go  to  Guilford  Terrace. 

He  was  shown  into  the  little  sitting-room ;  it  was  the  room 
in  which  Mrs.  Raeburn  had  died,  and  the  mere  sight  of  the 
outer  suiToundings,  the  well-worn  furniture,  the  book-lined 
walls,  made  the  whole  scene  vividly  present  to  him.  The  room 
was  empty,  there  was  a  blazing  fire  but  no  other  light,  for  the 
blinds  were  down,  and  even  the  v.'inter  twilight  shut  out. 
Brian  sat  down  and  waited.  Presently  the  door  opened,  he 
looked  up  and  saw  Erica  approaching  him.  She  was  taller 
than  she  had  been  when  he  last  saw  her,  and  now  grief  had 
given  her  a  peculiar  dignity  which  made  her  much  more  like 
her  father.  Every  shade  of  colour  had  left  her  face,  her 
eyes  we;*e  fidl  of  a  limitless  pain,  the  eyelids  were  slightly 
reddened,  but  apparently  rather  from  sleeplessness  than 
from  teai-s,  the  whole  face  was  so  altered  that  a  mere  casual 
acquaintance  would  hardly  have  recognised  it,  except  by 
the  unchanged  waves  of  short  auburn  hair  which  still  formed 
the  sotting  as  it  were  to  a  picture,  lovely  even  now.  Only  one 
other  thing  was  unchanged,  and  that  was  the  frank  uncon- 
ventional manner.  Even  in  her  grief  she  could  not  be  quite 
like  other  people. 

*  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  see  you,'  said  Brian,  '  you 
are  sure  you  are  doing  right ;  it  will  not  be  too  much  for  you 
to-day.' 


72  WHY  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT  1 

*  There  is  no  great  difference  in  days,  I  think,'  said  Erica, 
sitting  down  on  a  low  cliair  beside  tlie  fire.  '  I  do  not  very 
much  believe  in  degrees  in  tliis  kind  of  grief,  I  do  not  see  why 
it  should  be  ever  more  or  ever  less.  Perhaps  I  am  wTong,  it  is 
all  new  to  me.' 

She  spoke  in  a  slow,  steady,  low-toned  voice.  There  was 
an  absolute  hopelessness  about  her  whole  aspect  which  was 
terrible  to  see.  A  moment's  pause  followed,  then,  looking  up 
at  Brian,  she  fancied  that  she  read  in  his  face  something  of 
hesitation,  of  a  consciousness  that  he  could  ill  express  what  he 
wished  to  say,  and  her  innate  coui'tcsy  made  her  even  now 
hasten  to  relieve  him. 

'  Don't  be  afraid  of  speaking,'  she  said,  a  softer  light  coming 
into  her  eyes.  '  I  don't  know  wliy  people  shrink  from  meeting 
trouble.  Even  Tom  is  half  afraid  of  me.  I  am  not  changed,  I 
am  still  Erica ;  can't  you  understand  how  much  I  want  every 
one  now  ? ' 

'  People  differ  so  m\ich,'  said  Brian,  a  little  huskily,  *  and 
then  Avhen  one  feels  strongly  words  do  not  come  easily.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  would  not  rather  have  your  sympathy 
than  an  oration  from  any  one  else  !  You  who  were  here  to  the 
end  !  you  who  did  everything  for — for  her.  My  father  has  told 
me  very  little,  he  was  not  able  to,  but  he  told  me  of  you,  how 
helpful  you  were,  how  good,  not  like  an  outsider  at  all ! ' 

Evidently  she  clung  to  the  comforting  recollection  that  at 
least  one  trustable,  sympathetic  person  had  been  with  her 
mother  at  the  last.  Brian  could  only  say  how  little  he  had 
done,  how  much  more  he  would  fain  have  done  had  it  been 
possilile. 

*  I  think  you  do  comfort  me  by  talking,'  said  Erica.  '  And 
now  I  want  you,  if  you  don't  mind,  to  tell  me  all  from  the  very 
first.  I  can't  torture  my  father  by  asking  him,  and  I  couldn't 
bear  it  from  the  landlady.  But  you  were  here,  you  can  tell  me 
all.  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  me  ;  can't  you  understand,  if 
the  past  were  the  only  thing  left  to  you,  you  Avould  want  to 
know  every  tiniest  detail ! ' 

He  looked  search  ingly  into  her  eyes,  he  thought  she  w^as 
right.  There  were  no  degrees  to  pain  like  hers !  besides,  it  was 
quite  possible  that  the  lesser  details  of  her  mother's  death 
miglit  bring  tears  which  would  relieve  her.  Very  quietly,  very 
reverently,  he  told  her  all  that  had  passed, — she  already  knew 
that  lier  mother  had  died  from  aneurism  of  the  heart, — he  told 
her  how  in  the  evening  he  had  been  summoned  to  her,  and 
from  the  first  had  known  that  it  was  hopeless,  had  becnobl'ged 


\rnT  DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IT  1  73 

to  tell  her  that  the  time  for  speech  even  was  but  short.  He 
had  ordered  a  telegram  to  be  sent  to  her  father  at  Birmingham, 
but  Mx'S.  Craigie  and  Tom  were  out  for  the  evening,  and  no  one 
knew  where  they  were  to  be  found.  He  and  the  landlady  had 
been  alone. 

'  She  spoke  constantly  of  you,'  he  continued.  *  The  very 
last  words  she  said  were  these,  "  Tell  Erica  that  only  love  can 
keep  from  bitterness,  that  love  is  stronger  than  the  world's  un- 
kiudness."  Then,  after  a  minute's  pause,  she  added,  "Be  good 
to  my  little  girl,  promise  to  be  good  to  her."  After  that, 
speech  became  impossible,  but  I  do  not  think  she  suffered. 
Once  she  motioned  to  me  to  give  her  the  frame  off  the  mantel- 
piece with  your  photograph  ;  she  looked  at  it  and  kept  it  near 
her, — she  died  with  it  in  her  hand.' 

Erica  hid  her  face  ;  that  one  trifling  little  incident  was  too 
much  for  her,  the  tears  rained  down  between  her  fingers. 
That  it  should  have  come  to  that !  no  one  whom  she  loved 
there  at  the  last — but  she  had  looked  at  the  photograph,  had 
held  it  to  the  very  end,  the  voiceless,  useless  picture  had  been 
there,  the  real  Erica  had  been  laughing  and  talking  at  Paris  ! 
Brian  talked  on  slowly,  soothingly.  Presently  he  paused; 
then  Erica  suddenly  looked  up,  and  dashing  away  her  tears, 
said,  in  a  voice  which  was  terrible  in  its  mingled  pain  and  in- 
dignation, 

'  I  might  have  been  here  !  I  might  have  been  with  her  ! 
It  is  the  fxult  of  that  wretched  man  who  went  bankrupt  ;  the 
fault  of  the  bigots  who  will  not  treat  us  fairly — who  ruin  us  ! ' 

She  sobbed  with  passionate  pain,  a  vivid  streak  of  crimson 
dyed  her  cheek,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  deathly  white- 
ness of  her  brow. 

'  Forgive  me  if  I  pain  you,'  said  Brian ;  '  but  have  you  for- 
gotten the  message  I  gave  you  ]  "  It  is  only  love  that  can 
keep  from  bitterness  ! " ' 

'  Love  ! '  cried  Erica ;  she  covdd  have  screamed  it,  if  she 
had  not  been  so  physically  exhausted.  '  Do  you  mean  I  am  to 
love  our  enemies  1 ' 

'  It  is  only  the  love  of  all  humanity  that  can  keep  from 
bitterness,'  said  Brian. 

Erica  began  to  think  over  his  reply,  and  in  thinking  grew 
calm  once  more.  By-and-by  she  lifted  up  her  face  ;  it  was  pale 
again  now,  and  still,  and  perfectly  hopeless. 

'  I  suppose  you  think  that  only  Christians  can  love  all 
humanity,'  she  said,  a  little  coldly. 

*  I  should  call  all  tnie  lovers  of  humanity  Christians,'  re* 


74  WHY  DO  YOU  BEl  JEVE  IT  t 

plied  Brian,  '  whether  they  are  consciously  followers  of  Christ 
or  not' 

She  thought  a  little  ;  then  "with  a  curiously  haixl  look  iu 
her  face,  she  suddenly  flashed  round  upon  him  with  a  question, 
much  as  her  father  Avas  in  the  habit  of  doing  when  an  ad- 
versary had  made  some  broad-hearted  statement  which  had 
baflicd  him. 

*  Some  of  you  give  us  a  little  more  charity  than  others ; 
but  what  do  you  mean  by  Christianity  ]  You  ask  us  to  believe 
what  is  incredible.  W/it/  do  you  believe  in  the  resurrection] 
What  reason  have  you  fov  thinking  it  true  1 ' 

She  expected  him  to  go  into  the  evidence  question,  to  quote 
the  number  of  Christ's  appearances,  to  speak  of  the  five  hun- 
dred witnesses  of  whom  she  was  weary  of  hearing.  Her  mind 
was  proof  against  all  this  ;  what  could  be  more  pi'obable  than 
that  a  number  of  devoted  followers  should  be  the  victims  of 
some  optical  delusion,  especially  when  their  minds  were  dis- 
turbed by  grief.  Here  was  a  mii'acle  suppoi'ted  on  one  side  by 
the  testimony  of  five  hundred  and  odd  spectators  all  longing  to 
see  their  late  Master,  and  contradicted  on  the  other  side  by 
common-sense  and  the  experience  of  the  remainder  of  the 
human  race  during  thousands  of  years  !  She  looked  full  at 
Brian,  a  hard  yet  almost  exultant  expression  in  her  eyes,  which 
spoke  more  plainly  than  words  her  perfect  conviction  : — 

'  You  can't  set  your  evidences  against  my  countei'-evidcnccs ! 
you  can't  logically  maintain  that  a  few  uneducated  men  ai'e  to 
have  more  Avcight  than  all  the  united  experience  of  mankind.' 

Never  would  she  so  gladly  have  believed  in  the  doctrine  of 
immortality  as  now,  yet  with  characteristic  honesty  and  resolute- 
ness she  set  herself  into  an  attitude  of  rigid  defence,  lest 
through  strong  desire  or  mere  bodily  weariness  she  should  drift 
into  the  acceptance  of  what  might  be,  what  indeed  she  con- 
sidered to  be  error.  But  to  her  surprise,  half  to  her  disappoint- 
ment, Brian  did  not  even  mention  the  evidences.  She  had 
braced  herself  up  to  withstand  arguments  drawn  from  the  five 
hundred  brethren,  but  the  preparation  was  useless. 

'  I  believe  in  the  resurrection,'  said  Brian,  *  because  I 
cannot  doubt  Jesus  Clu'ist.  He  is  the  most  perfectly  loveable 
and  trustaljle  Being  I  know,  or  can  conceive  of  knowing.  He 
said  He  should  rise  again,  I  believe  tliat  He  did  rise.  He  was 
perfectly  truthful,  tlierefore  He  could  not  mislead ;  He  knew, 
tlierefore  He  could  not  be  misled.' 

'  Wc  do  not  consider  Him  to  be  all  that  you  assert,'  said 
Erica.     '  Xor  do  His  followers  make  one  inclined  to  think  that 


WHY  DO  VOU  BELIEVE  IT  ?  75 

either  He  or  His  teaching  were  so  perfect  as  you  try  to  make 
out.      Yon  are  not  so  hard-hearted  as  some  of  them ' 

She  broke  off,  seeing  a  look  of  pain  on  her  companion's 
face. 

'  Oh,  what  am  I  saying  ! '  she  cried,  in  a  very  different  tone, 
'  you  who  have  done  so  much — you  who  were  always  good  to 
us, — I  did  not  indeed  mean  to  hurt  you,  it  is  your  creed  that 
I  can't  help  hating,  not  you.  You  are  our  friend,  you  said  so 
long  ago.' 

'Always,'  said  Brian,   '  never  doubt  that.' 

'  Then  you  must  forgive  me  for  having  wounded  you,'  said 
Erica,  her  whole  face  softening.  'You  must  remember  how 
hard  it  all  is,  and  that  I  am  so  very,  very  miserable.' 

He  would  have  given  his  life  to  bring  her  comfort,  but  he 
was  not  a  very  great  believer  in  Avords,  and,  besides,  he  thought 
she  had  talked  quite  as  long  as  she  ought. 

'  I  think,'  he  said,  '  that,  honestly  acted  out,  the  message 
eutnisted  to  me  ought  to  comfort  your  misery.' 

'  I  can't  act  it  out,'  she  said. 

'  You  will  begin  to  try,'  was  Brian's  answer  ;  and  then,  with 
a  very  full  heart,  he  said  good-bye  and  left  his  Undine  sitting 
by  the  fire,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  hands,  and  the  words 
of  her  mother's  message  echoing  in  her  ears.  '  It  is  only  love 
that  can  keep  from  bitterness,  love  is  stronger  than  the  world's 
unkind  n  ess.' 

Presently,  not  daring  to  dwell  too  much  on  that  last  scene 
which  Brian  had  described,  she  turned  to  his  strange,  un- 
expected reason  for  his  belief  in  the  resurrection,  and  mused 
over  the  characteristics  of  his  ideal.  Then  she  thought  she 
would  like  to  see  again  what  her  ideal  man  had  to  say  about 
his,  and  she  got  up  and  searched  for  a  small  book  in  a  limp  red 
cover,  labelled  Life  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. — Lulce  Raeburn.  It 
was  more  than  two  years  since  she  had  seen  it ;  she  read  it 
through  once  more.  The  style  was  vigorous,  the  veiled 
sarcasms  were  not  unpleasant  to  her,  she  detected  no  \\\\- 
fairness  in  the  mode  of  treatment,  the  book  satisfied  her,  the 
conclusion  arrived  at  seemed  to  her  inevitable — Brian  Osmond's 
ideal  was  not.  perfect. 

"With  a  sigh  of  utter  weariness  she  shut  the  book  and  leant 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  still,  white,  hopeless  face.  Presently 
Friskarina  sprang  up  on  her  knee  with  a  little  sympathetic 
mew  ;  she  had  been  too  miserable  as  yet  to  notice  even  her 
favourite  cat  very  much,  now  a  scarcely  perceptible  shade  of 
relief  came  to   her  sadness,    she   sti'oked  the  soft  grey  head. 


76  ROSE. 

Bat  scarcely  had  she  spoken  to  her  fiivoiiritc,  wlien  the  cat 
suddenly  turned  away,  sprang  from  her  knee  and  trotted  out  of 
the  room.  It  seemed  like  actual  desertion,  and  Erica  could  ill 
bear  it  just  then. 

'  What,  you  too,  Friskie,'  she  said  to  hei-self,  '  are  even  you 
glad  to  keep  away  from  me  V 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  ;  desolate  and  miserable  as 
she  had  been  before,  she  now  felt  more  completely  alone. 

In  a  few  minutes  something  warm  touching  her  foot  made 
her  look  up,  and  with  one  bound  Friskarina  sprang  into  her  lap, 
caiTving  in  her  mouth  a  young  kitten.  She  purred  contented]}^, 
looking  first  at  her  child  and  then  at  her  mistress,  saying  as 
j)laiuly  as  if  she  had  spoken, 

*  Will  this  comfort  you]' 

Erica  stroked  and  kissed  both  cat  and  kitten,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  her  trouble  a  feeling  of  warmth  came  to  her 
frozen  heart 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ROSE. 

A  lite  of  unalloyed  content, 

A  life  like  that  of  land-locked  seas. 

J.  E.  Lowell. 

'  Elspeto,  you  really  nnist  tell  me,  I'm  dying  of  curiosity,  and 
I  can  see  by  your  face  you  know  all  about  it  !  How  is  it  that 
grandpapa's  name  is  in  the  papers  when  he  has  been  dead 
all  these  years  f  I  tell  j-ou  I  saw  it,  a  little  paragraph  in  to- 
day's paper,  headed,  "  Mr.  Luke  Raeburn."  Is  this  another 
namesake  who  has  something  to  do  with  him  !' 

The  speaker  was  a  tall,  bright-looking  girl'of  eighteen,  a 
blue-eyed,  flaxen-haired  blonde,  with  a  saucy  little  mouth, 
about  which  there  now  lurked  an  expression  of  undisguised 
curiosity.  Hose,  for  that  was  her  name,  was  something  of  a 
coax,  and  all  her  life  long  she  had  managed  to  get  her  own 
way  ;  she  was  an  only  child,  and  had  been  not  a  little  spoilt ; 
but  in  spite  of  many  faults  she  was  loveable,  and  beneath  licr 
outer  shell  of  vanity  and  self-satisfaction  there  lay  a  sterling 
little  heart. 

Her  companion,  Elspetli,  was  a  wrinkled  old  woman,  whoso 


ROSE.  77 

smooth  grey  hair  was  almost  hidden  by  a  huge  mob-cap,  which, 
in  defiance  of  modern  custom,  she  wore  tied  under  lier  chin. 
Slie  had  nursed  Rose  and  her  mother  before  her,  and  had  now 
become  more  like  a  family  friend  than  a  servant. 

'Miss  Rose,'  she  replied,  looking  up  from  her  work,  'if  you 
go  on  chatter-magging  away  like  this,  there'll  be  no  frock  ready 
for  you  to-night,'  and  with  a  most  uncommunicative  air,  the  old 
woman  turned  away,  and  gave  a  little  impressive  shake  to  the 
billowy  mass  of  white  tarlatr.n  to  which  she  was  putting  the 
finishing  touches. 

'  The  white  lilies  just  at  the  side,'  said  Rose,  her  attention 
diverted  for  a  moment.  '  Won't  it  be  lovely  !  the  prettiest 
dress  in  the  room,  I'm  sure.'  Then,  her  curiosity  returning, 
'  But,  Elspeth,  I  shan't  enjoy  the  dance  a  bit  unless  you  tell 
me  what  Mr.  Luke  Raeburn  has  to  do  with  us  1  Listen,  and  I'll 
tell  you  how  I  found  out.  Papa  brought  the  paper  up  to 
mamma,  and  said,  "Did  you  see  this?"  And  then  mamma 
read  it,  and  the  colour  came  all  over  her  face,  and  she  did  not 
say  a  word,  but  went  out  of  the  room  pretty  soon.  And  then 
I  took  up  the  paper,  and  looked  at  the  page  she  had  been 
reading,  and  saw  grandpapa's  name.' 

*  What  was  it  about  1 '  asked  old  Elspeth. 

*  That's  just  what  I  couldn't  understand  ;  it  was  all  about 
secularists.  What  are  secularists  ]  But  it  seems  that  this 
Luke  Raeburn,  -whoever  he  is,  has  lost  his  wife.  While  he  was 
lecturing  at  Birmingham  on  the  soul,  it  said,  his  wife  died, 
and  this  paragraph  said  it  seemed  like  a  judgment,  which  was 
rather  cool,  I  think.' 

'  Poor  laddie  ! '  sighed  old  Elspeth. 

*  Elspeth,'  cried  Rose,  *  do  you  know  who  the  man  is  ? ' 
'Miss  Rose,'  said  the  old  woman,  severely,  'in  my  young 

days  there  was  a  saying  that  you'd  do  well  to  lay  to  heart, 
"  Ask  no  questions,  and  you'll  be  told  no  stories." ' 

'  It  isn't  your  young  days  now,  it's  your  old  days,  Elsie,' 
said  the  imperturbable  Rose.  '  I  will  ask  you  questions  as  much 
as  I  please,  and  you'll  tell  me  what  this  mystery  means,  there'? 
a  dear  old  nuraie  !  Have  I  not  a  right  to  know  about  my  owd 
relations  ? ' 

'  Oh,  bairn  !  bairn  !  if  it  w^ere  anything  you'd  like  to  hear ; 
but  why  should  you  know  what  is  all  sad  and  gloomful  ?  No, 
no,  go  to  your  balls,  and  think  of  your  fine  dresses  and  gran' 
partners,  though,  for  the  matter  of  that,  it  is  but  vanity  of 
vanities ' 

'  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  quote  Ecclesiastes,  I  shall  go  ! '  said 


78  ROSE. 

Rose,  pouting.  '  I  wish  that  book  wasn't  in  the  Bible  !  I'm 
sure  svich  an  old  grumbler  ought  to  have  been  in  the  Apocrypha.' 

Elspeth  shook  her  head,  and  muttered  something  about 
judgment  and  trouble.     Hose  began  to   be   doubly  curious. 

Trouble,  sadness,  a  mystery — perhaps  a  tragedy  !  Rose 
had  read  of  such  tilings  in  books;  were  there  such  things 
actually  in  the  family,  and  she  had  never  known  of  them  ?  A 
few  hours  ago  and  she  had  been  unable  to  think  of  anything  bat 
her  first  ball,  her  new  dress,  her  flowers ;  but  she  was  seized 
now  with  the  most  intense  desire  to  fathom  this  mysteiy.  That 
it  bid  fair  to  be  a  sad  mystery  only  made  her  more  eager  and 
curious.  She  was  so  young,  so  ignorant,  there  was  still  a  halo 
of  romance  about  those  unknown  things,  trouble  and  sadness.  • 

'  Elspeth,  you  treat  me  like  a  child  ! '  she  exclaimed  ;  '  it's 
really  too  bad  of  jow.' 

'Maybe  you're  right,  bairn,'  said  the  old  nuree ;  'but  it's 
no  doing  of  mine.  But  look  here.  Miss  Rose,  you  be  persuaded 
by  me,  go  straight  to  j^our  mamma  and  askheryoui'self.  May- 
be there  is  a  doubt  whether  you  oughtn't  to  know,  but  there  is 
no  doubt  that  I  mustn't  tell  you.' 

Rose  hesitated,  but  presently  her  curiosity  overpowered  her 
reluctance. 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  or,  as  she  had  been  called  in  her  maiden 
days,  Isabel  Raeburn,  was  remarkably  like  her  daughter  in  so 
far  as  features  and  colouring  were  concerned,  but  she  was  ex- 
ceedingly unlike  her  in  character,  for  whereas  Rose  was  vain  and 
self-confident,  and  had  a  decided  will  of  her  own,  her  mother  was 
diffident  and  exaggeratedly  humble.  She  was  a  kind-hearted 
and  a  good  woman,  but  she  was  in  danger  of  losing  almost  all 
the  real  blessedness  of  life  by  perpetually  harassing  herself 
with  the  question,   '  What  will  people  say  ? ' 

She  looked  up  apprehensively  as  her  daughter  came  into  the 
room.  Rose  felt  sure  she  had  been  crying,  her  curiosity  was 
still  further  stimulated,  and  with  all  the  persuasiveness  at  her 
command,  she  urged  her  motlier  to  tell  her  the  meaning  of  the 
mysterious  paragraph, 

'I  am  soi-ry  you  have  asked  me,'  said  ^Irs.  Fane-Smith, 
*  but,  perhaps,  since  you  are  no  longer  a  child  you  had  better 
know.  It  is  a  sad  story,  however,  Rose,  and  I  should  not  have 
chosen  to  tell  it  you  to-day  of  all  days.' 

'  But  I  want  to  hear,  mamma,'  said  Rose,  decidedly.  '  Please 
begin.     Who  is  this  Mr,  Raeburn  1 ' 

'He  is  my  brother,'  said  Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  with  a  littlo 
quiver  in  her  voice. 


ROSE.  79 

*  Your  brother  !     My  uncle  ! '  cried  Rose,  in  amazement. 

*  Luke  was  the  eldest  of  us/  said  Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  '  then 
came  Jean,  and  I  was  the  youngest  of  all,  at  least  of  those  who 
lived.' 

'  Then  I  have  an  aimt,  too,  an  Aunt  Jean  ! '  exclaimed  Eose. 

'You  shall  hear  the  whole  story,'  replied  her  mother.  She 
thought  for  a  minute,  then  in  rather  a  low  voice  she  began. 
'  Luke  and  Jean  were  always  the  clever  ones,  Luke  especially  ; 
your  grandfather  had  set  his  heart  on  his  being  a  clergyman, 
and  you  can  fancy  the  grief  it  was  to  us  when  he  threw  up  the 
whole  idea,  and  declared  that  he  coidd  never  take  orders.  He 
was  only  nineteen  when  he  renounced  I'eligion  altogether ;  he 
and  my  father  had  a  great  dispute,  and  the  end  of  it  was  that 
Luke  was  sent  away  from  home,  and  I  have  never  seen  him 
since.  He  has  become  a  very  notorious  infidel  lecturer.  Jean  was 
very  much  unsettled  by  his  change  of  views,  and  I  believe  her 
real  reason  for  manying  old  Mr.  Craigie  w^as  that  she  had 
made  him  promise  to  let  her  see  Luke  again.  She  married 
young  and  settled  down  in  London,  and  when,  in  a  few  years, 
her  husband  died,  she  too  renounced  Christianity.' 

To  tell  the  truth.  Rose  was  not  deeply  interested  in  the 
story,  it  fell  a  little  flat  after  her  expectations  of  a  tragedy.  It 
had,  moreover,  a  sort  of  missionary  flavour,  and  she  had  till  the 
last  few  months  lived  in  India,  and  had  grown  heartily  tired  of 
the  details  of  mission-work,  in  which  both  her  father  and  mother 
had  been  interested.  Conversions,  relapses,  heathenism,  belief 
and  unbelief  were  words  which  had  sounded  so  often  in  her  ears 
that  now  they  bored  her ;  as  they  were  the  merest  words  to 
her  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise.  But  Rose's  best  point  was  her 
loyalty  to  her  own  family,  she  had  the  'clan'  feeling  very  strongly, 
and  she  could  not  understand  how  her  mother  could  have 
allowed  such  a  complete  estrangement  to  grow  up  between  her 
and  her  nearest  relations. 

'  Mamma,'  she  said,  quickly,  '  I  should  have  gone  to  see 
Uncle  Luke  if  I  had  been  you.' 

'  It  is  impossible,  dear,'  replied  Mrs.  Fane-Smitli.  '  Your 
father  would  not  allow  it  for  one  thing,  and  then  only  think 
what  people  would  say  !  This  is  partly  my  reason  for  telling 
you.  Rose  ;  I  want  to  put  you  upon  your  guard.  We  heard  little 
or  nothing  of  your  uncle  when  we  were  in  India,  bu.t  you  Avill  find 
it  very  different  here.  He  is  one  of  the  most  notorious  men  in 
England ;  you  mvist  never  mention  his  name,  never  allude  to 
him,  do  you  understand  me  ? ' 

'  Is  he  then  so  wicked  ? ' 


80  ROSE. 

'  My  dear,  consider  what  liis  teaching  is,  that  is  sufficient ;  I 
would  not  for  the  whole  world  allow  our  Greyshot  friends  to 
•ruess  that  we  are  connected  with  him  in  any  way.  It  miglit 
ruin  all  your  prospects  in  life.' 

*  Mamma,'  said  Eose,  '  I  don't  think  ISIr.  Rachurn  will 
injure  my  prospects — of  course  you  mean  prospects  of  marrying. 
If  a  man  didn't  care  enough  for  me  to  take  me  whetlier  I  am 
tlie  niece  of  the  worst  man  in  England  or  not,  do  you  think  I 
would  accept  him  ] ' 

There  was  an  angiy  ring  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke,  her 
little  saucy  mouth  looked  almost  grand.  After  a  moment's 
pause  she  added,  more  quietly,  but  with  all  the  force  of  the 
true  woman's  heart  which  lay  hidden  beneath  her  silliness  and 
frivolity,  '  Besides,  mamma,  is  it  quite  honest  1 ' 

'  AYe  are  not  bound  to  publish  our  family  history  to  the 
world.  Rose.  If  any  one  asked  me,  of  course  I  should  tell  the 
truth  ;  if  there  was  any  way  of  helping  my  brother  or  his  child 
I  would  gladly  serve  them,  even  though  the  world  Avould  look 
coldly  on  me  for  doing  so  ;  but  while  they  remain  atheists  how 
is  it  possible  ? ' 

'  Then  he  has  a  child  ? ' 

*  One  only,  I  believe,  a  girl  of  about  your  own  age.' 

*  Oh,  mamma,  how  I  should  like  to  know  her  ! ' 

'  My  dear  Rose,  how  can  you  speak  of  such  a  thing  !  You 
don't  realise  that  she  is  an  atheist,  has  not  even  been  baptized, 
poor  little  thing.' 

*  But  she  is  my  cousin,  and  she  is  a  girl  just  like  me,'  said 
Rose.  '  I  should  like  to  know  her  very  much.  I  wonder  whether 
she  has  come  out  yet.  I  wonder  how  she  enjoyed  her  first 
ball.' 

'  My  dear  !  they  are  not  in  society.' 

'  How  dull !  what  does  she  do  all  day,  I  wonder  1 ' 

'  I  cannot  tell,  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  about  her.  Rose ; 
I  should  not  wish  you  even  to  think  about  her,  except,  indeed, 
to  mention  her  in  your  prayers.' 

'  Oh,  I'd  much  rather  have  her  here  to  stay,'  said  Rose, 
with  a  little  mischievous  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

'  Rose  ! ' 

'  Why,  mamma,  if  she  were  a  black  imbclicver  you  would 
be  delighted  to  have  her,  it  is  only  because  she  is  white  that 
you  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  You  would  have 
been  as  pleased  as  possible  if  I  had  made  friends  with  any  of 
the  ladies  in  the  Zenanas.' 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  looked  uncomfortable,  and  murmured  that 


ROSE.  81 

that  was  a  very  different  question.  Rose  seeing  her  advantage, 
made  haste  to  follow  it  up. 

'  At  any  rate,  mamma,  jou  will  write  to  Uncle  Luke  now  that 
he  is  in  trouble,  and  you'll  let  me  send  a  note  to  his  daughter  1 
Only  think,  mamma,  she  has  lost  her  mother  so  suddenly  !  just 
think  how  wi'etched  she  must  be !  Oh,  mamma,  dear,  I  can't 
think  how  she  can  bear  it!'  and  Rose  threw  her  arms  round 
her  mother's  neck.  '  I  should  die  too  if  you  were  to  die  !  I'm 
sure  1  should. 

Rose  was  very  persuasive,  Mrs.  Fane-Smith's  motherly  heart 
was  touched ;  she  sat  doA\Ti  there  and  then,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  the  summer  day  when  Luke  Raebum  had  been 
turned  out  of  his  father's  house,  she  wrote  to  her  brother. 
Rose  in  the  meantime  had  taken  a  piece  of  paper  from  her 
mother's  writing-desk,  and  with  a  fat  volume  of  sermons  by  way 
of  a  desk,  was  scribbling  away  as  fast  as  she  could.  This  was 
her  letter : — 

'  My  dear  Cousin, 

'  I  don't  know  your  name,  and  have  only  just  heard 
anything  about  you,  and  the  first  thing  I  heard  was  that  you 
were  in  dreadful  trouble.  I  only  write  to  send  you  my  love, 
and  to  say  how  very  sorry  I  am  for  you.  We  only  came  to 
England  in  the  Autumn.  I  like  it  very  much.  I  am  going  to 
my  first  ball  to-night,  and  expect  to  enjoy  it  immensely.      My 

dress  is  to  be  white  tarla Oh,  dear  !  how  horrid  of  me  to 

be  writing  like  this  to  you.     Please,  forgive  me.     I  don't  like  to 
be   so   happy   when  you  are  unhappy ;  bvit,  you  see,  I  have 
only  just  heard  of  you,  so  it  is  a  little  difficult.     With  love. 
'  I  remain,  your  aft'ectionate  cousin, 

'  Rose  Fane-Smith.' 

That  evening,  while  Erica,  with  eyes  dim  with  grief  and 
weariness,  was  poring  over  the  books  in  her  father's  study, 
Rose  was  being  initiated  into  all  the  delights  of  the  ball-room. 
She  was  in  her  glory.  Everything  was  new  to  her  ;  she  enjoyed 
dancing,  she  knew  that  she  looked  pretty,  knew  that  her  dress 
was  charming,  knew  that  she  was  much  admired,  and  of  course 
she  liked  it  all.  But  the  chaperons  shook  their  heads  ;  it  was 
whispered  that  Miss  Fane-Smith  was  a  terrible  flirt,  she  had 
danced  no  less  than  seven  dances  with  Captain  Golightly.  If 
her  mother  erred  by  thinking  too  much  of  what  people  said, 
perhaps  Rose  eiTcd  in  exactly  the  opposite  way ;  at  any  rate,  she 
managed  to  call  down  upon  her  silly  but  innocent  little  head  an 
immense  amount  of  blame  from  the  mothers  and  elderly  ladies. 


82  HARD  AT  WORK. 

'A  glorious  moonliijht  night,'  said  Captain  Goliglitly.  'What 
do  yon  say,  Mi^s  FunoSniith  1  Shall  we  take  a  turn  in  the 
garden  1     Or  are  you  afraid  of  the  cold  V 

'Afraid!  oh,  dear,  no,' said  Rose,  'it's  the  very  tiling  I  should 
enjoy  ;  I  suppose  I  naust  get  my  shawl,  though ;  it  is  upstairs.' 

They  were  in  the  vestibidc. 

'  Have  my  ulster,'  said  Captain  Golightly.  Here  it  is, 
just  hand}',  and  it  will  keep  you  much  warmer.' 

Rose  laughed  and  blushed,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  put 
into  her  partner's  coat,  rather  to  the  detriment  of  her  billowy 
tarlatan.  After  a  while  they  came  back  again  from  the  dim 
gax'den  to  the  brightly  -  lighted  vestibule,  and  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  chanced  to  encounter  a  stream  of  people  going 
into  the  supper-room.  Every  one  stared  at  the  apparition  of 
Miss  Fane-Smith  in  Captain  Golightly's  coat.  With  some  diffi- 
culty she  struggled  out  of  it,  and  with  very  hot  cheeks  sought 
shelter  in  the  ball-room. 

'  How  dreadfully  they  looked  !  Do  you  think  it  was  wrong  of 
me  1 '  she  half-whispered  to  her  partner, 

'  Oh,  dear,  no !  sensible  and  plucky,  and  everything  de- 
lightful !  You  are  much  too  charming  to  be  bound  down  to  silly 
conventionalities.  Come,  let  us  have  this  dance.  I'm  sure  you 
are  engaged  to  some  one  in  the  supper-room  who  can't  deserve 
such  a  delightful  partner.  Let  us  have  this  ii-ois  temj^s,  and  hurl 
defiance  at  the  Gi'cyshot  chaperons.' 

Rose  laughed,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  borne  off.  She 
had  been  excited  before,  now  she  was  doubly  excited,  and 
Captain  Golightly  had  the  most  delicious  step  imaginable. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HARD  AT  WORK. 

LonRJng  is  God's  fresh  heavenward  will 

With  our  poor  earthward  striving  ; 
We  quench  it  that  we  may  be  still 

Content  with  merely  living  ; 
But,  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full  scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope 

And  realise  our  longing.  J.  11.  Lowell. 

PERUArs  it  was  only  natural  that  there  should  be  tliat  winter 
a  good  deal  of  commiuiication  between  the  secidarist's  house  in 
Guilford  Terrace  and  the  clergyman's  house  in  Guilford  Square 


HARD  AT  WORK.  83 

From  the  first  Raebxirn  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Charles 
Osmond,  and  now  that  Brian  had  become  so  closely  connected 
with  the  memory  of  their  sndden  bereavement,  and  had  made 
himself  almost  one  of  them  by  his  silent,  unobtrusive  sympathy, 
and  by  his  numberless  acts  of  delicate  considerateness,  a  tie 
was  necessarily  formed  which  promised  to  deepen  into  one  of 
those  close  friendships  that  sometimes  exist  between  two  entire 
families. 

It  was  a  bleak,  chilly  afternoon  in  March,  when  Charles 
Osmond,  returning  from  a  long  roimd  of  parish  work,  thought 
he  would  look  in  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  liaeburns' ;  he  had  a 
proposal  to  make  to  Erica,  some  fresh  work  which  he  thought 
might  interest  her.  He  rang  the  bell  at  the  now  familiar  door 
and  was  admitted ;  it  carried  him  back  to  the  day  when  he  had 
first  called  there  and  had  been  shown  into  the  fire-lit  room,  with 
the  book-lined  walls,  and  the  pretty  little  girl  curled  up  on  the 
rug,  with  her  cat  and  her  toasting-fork.  Time  had  brought 
many  changes  since  then.  This  evening  he  was  again  shown 
into  the  study,  but  this  time  the  gas  was  lighted  and  there  was 
no  little  girl  upon  the  hearth-rug.  Erica  was  sitting  at  her 
desk  hard  at  work.  Her  face  lighted  up  at  the  sight  of  her 
visitor. 

'  Every  one  is  out  except  me,'  she  said,  more  brightly  than 
he  had  heard  her  speak  since  her  return.  '  Did  you  really  come 
to  see  me  1     How  good  of  you.' 

'  But  you  are  busy,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  glancing  at  the 
papers  on  the  desk]     '  Press-work  1 ' 

'  Yes,  my  first  article,'  said  Erica,  'it  is  just  finished,  but  if 
you'll  excuse  me  for  one  minute,  I  ought  to  correct  it,  the  office 
boy  will  call  for  it  directly.' 

'  Don't  hurry ;  I  will  wait  and  get  warm  in  the  meantime,' 
said  Charles  Osmond,  establishing  himself  by  the  fire. 

There  was  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  Erica's  pen 
as  she  crossed  out  a  word  or  a  line.  Charles  Osmond  watched 
her  and  mused.  This  beautiful  girl,  whose  development  he 
could  trace  now  for  more  than  two  years  back,  what  woidd  she 
grow  into  1     Already  she  was  writing  in  the  Idol-BreaJcer. 

He  regretted  it.  Yet  it  was  obviously  the  most  natural 
employment  for  her.  He  looked  at  her  ever-changing  face. 
She  was  absorbed  in  her  work,  her  expression  vai-ying  wath  the 
sentences  she  read ;  now  there  was  a  look  of  triumphant  happi- 
ness as  she  came  to  something  which  made  her  heart  beat 
quickly,  again  a  shade  of  dissatisfaction  at  the  consciousness  of 
her  inability  to  express  what  was  in  her  mind.     He  could  not 


84  HARD  AT  WORK. 

help  thinking  that  it  was  one  of  the  noblest  faces  he  had  ever 
seen,  and  now  that  the  eyes  were  downcast  it  was  not  so  terribly 
sad ;  there  was  moreover  for  the  first  time  since  her  mother's 
death  a  faint  tinge  of  colour  in  her  checks.  Before  five  minutes 
could  have  passed  the  bell  rang  again. 

'  That  is  my  boy,'  she  exclaimed,  and  hastily  blotting  her 
sheets,  she  rolled  them  up,  gave  tliem  to  the  servant,  closed 
her  desk,  and  crossing  the  room,  knelt  down  in  front  of  the  fire 
to  warm  her  hands,  which  were  stiff'  and  chilly. 

'  How  rude  I  have  been  to  you,'  she  said,  smiling  a  little, 
'  I  always  have  been  rude  to  you,  since  the  very  first  time  we 
met.' 

'We  were  always  frank  with  each  other,'  said  Charles 
Osmond  ;  '  I  remember  you  gave  me  your  opinion  as  to  bigots 
and  Christians  in  the  most  delightfully  openly  way.  So  you  have 
been  writing  your  first  article  1 ' 

'  Yes,'  and  she  stretched  herself  as  though  she  were  rather 
tired  and  cramped.  '  I  have  had  a  delicious  afternoon.  Yester- 
day I  was  in  despair  about  it,  but  to-day  it  just  came — I  Avrote 
it  straight  off.' 

'And  you  are  satisfied  with  it  V 

'  Satisfied  ]    oh,  no  !      Is  anybody  ever  satisfied  ?     By  the 
time  it  is  in  print  I  shall  want  to  alter  every  sixth  line.     Still, 
I  dai'esay  it  will  say  a  little  of  what  I  want  said  V 
'  Oh,  3'ou  do  want  something  said  1 ' 

'  Of  course  ! '  she  replied,  a  little  indignantly.  '  If  not,  how 
could  I  wTite.' 

'  I  quite  agree  with  you,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  '  and  you 
mean  to  take  this  up  as  your  vocation?' 

'  If  I  am  thought  worthy,'  said  Erica,  colouring  a  little. 
*  I   see    you    have    high   ideas   of  the    art,'  said    Charles 
Osmond  ;  '  and  what  is  your  reason  for  taking  it  up  1 ' 

'  First  of  all,  though  it  sounds  rather  illogical,'  said  Erica, 
'  I  write  because  I  must,  there  is  something  in  me  which  will 
have  its  say.  Then,  too,  it  is  part  of  our  creed  that  every  one 
should  do  all  in  his  power  to  help  on  the  cause,  and  of  course, 
if  only  for  my  father's  sake,  it  would  be  my  greatest  pleasure. 
Then,  last  of  all,  I  write  because  I  nmst  earn  my  living.' 

'Cood  reasons  all,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  'But  I  don't 
feel  sure  that  you  won't  regret  having  written  when  you  look 
back  several  j'ears  hence.' 

'  Oh  1  I  daresay  it  will  all  seem  crude  and  ridiculous  then, 
but  one  must  make  a  beginning,'  said  Erica. 

'  And    arc   you  sure    you    have  thought   out   these   great 


HARD  AT  WORK.  85 

questions  so  thoroughly  and    fairly   that   you   are  capable  of 
teaching  others  about  them  1 ' 

'  Ah  !  now  I  see  what  you  mean  ! '  exclaimed  Erica,  *  you 
think  I  write  in  defence  of  atheism,  or  as  an  attacker  of 
Christianity.  I  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  father  would  not  allow 
me  to,  he  would  not  think  me  old  enough.  Oh  !  no,  I  am  only 
to  write  the  lighter  articles  which  are  needed  every  now  and 
then.  To-day  I  had  a  delightful  subject^"  Heroes — what  are 
they]'" 

'  Well,  and  what  is  your  definition  of  a  hero,  I  wonder ; 
what  are  the  qualities  you  think  absolutely  necessary  to  make 
oner 

'  I  think  I  have  only  two  absolutely  necessary  ones,'  said 
Erica  ;  '  but  my  heroes  must  have  these  two,  they  must  have 
brains  and  goodness.' 

'  A  tolerably  sweeping  definition,'  said  Charles  Osmond, 
laughing,  '  almost  equal  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  wanted  a  wife, 
and  said  there  were  only  two  things  he  would  stipulate  for — 
1.500^.  a-year,  and  an  angel !  But  it  brings  us  to  another 
d3finition,  you  see.  We  shall  agree  as  to  the  brains,  but  how 
about  goodness  !  What  is  your  definition  of  that  very  wide, 
not  to  say  vague,  tex'm  1 ' 

Erica  looked  puzzled. 

'  I  don't  think  I  can  define  it,'  she  said ;  'but  one  knows  it 
when  one  sees  it.' 

'  I>o  you  mean  by  it,  unselfishness,  courage,  truthfulness,  or 
any  other  virtue  1 ' 

*  Oh  !  it  is't  any  one  virtue,  or  even  a  parcel  of  virtues,  it 
will  not  go  into  words.' 

'  It  is  then  the  nearest  approach  to  some  perfect  ideal  which 
is  in  your  mind  1 ' 

'  I  suppose  it  is,'  she  said,  slowly. 

'  How  did  that  ideal  come  into  j'our  mind  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know,  I  suppose  I  got  it  by  inheritance.' 
'  From  the  original  moneron  1 ' 

'  You  are  laughing  at  me.  I  don't  know  how  of  course,  but 
I  have  it,  which,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  all  that  matters.' 

'  I  am  not  sure  of  that,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  The  ex- 
planation of  that  ideal  of  goodness  which  more  or  less  clearly 
exists  in  all  our  minds,  seems  to  me  to  rest  only  in  the  con- 
viction that  all  are  cliildren  of  one  perfect  Father.  And  I  can 
give  you  our  definition  of  goodness  without  hesitation,  it  is 
Bummed  up  for  us  in  one  word — "  Christlikeness." ' 

'  I  CTunot  see  it,  it  seems  to  me  all  exaggerated,'  said  Erica, 


86  HARD  AT  WOriK^ 

'  I  believe  it  is  only  because  people  are  educated  to  believe  and 
predisposed  to  think  it  all  good  and  perfect  that  there  are  so 
many  Christians.  You  may  say  it  is  Ave  Avho  arc  prejudiced. 
If  we  are,  I'm  sure  a'ou  Christians  have  done  enough  to  make 
us  so  !  How  coidd  I,  for  instance,  bean\"thing  but  an  atheist  ] 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  very  first  thing  I  can  remember.' 

Her  eyes  were  flashing  with  indignant  light. 

'I  was  a  little  tiny  child — only  four  years  old — but  there 
."ire  some  scenes  one  never  forgets.  I  can  see  it  all  as  plainly 
as  possible,  the  room  in  a  hotel,  the  very  doll  I  was  playing 
with.  There  was  a  great  noise  in  the  street,  ti-ampling,  hissing, 
hooting.  I  ran  to  the  window,  an  immense  crowd  was  coming 
nearer  and  nearer,  the  street  was  black  with  the  thi-ong,  they 
were  all  shouting  and  yelling — "  Down  with  the  intidel  !  " 
"Kill  the  atheist!"  Then  I  saw"  my  father,  he  was  there 
strong  and  fearless,  one  man  against  a  thousand  !  I  tell  you  I 
saw  him,  I  can  see  him  now,  fighting  his  way  on  single-handed, 
not  one  creature  brave  enough  to  stand  up  for  him  !  I  saw  him 
piished,  struck,  spit  upon,  stoned.  At  last  a  great  brick  struck 
him  on  the  head.  I  think  I  must  have  been  too  sick  or  too 
angry  to  see  any  more  after  that.  The  next  thing  I  remember 
is  lying  on  the  floor  sobbing,  and  hearing  father  come  into  the 
room  and  say,  "  Why  little  son  Eric,  did  you  think  they'd 
killed  me  V  And  he  picked  me  up  and  let  me  sit  on  his  knee, 
but  there  was  blood  on  his  face,  and  as  he  kissed  me  it  dropped 
upon  my  forehead.  I  tell  you,  you  Christians  baptised  me  into 
atheism  in  my  own  ftither's  blood.  They  were  Christians  who 
stoned  him,  chamjnons  of  religion,  and  they  were  egged  on  by 
the  clergy  !  Did  I  not  hear  it  all  then  in  my  babyhood  1  And 
it  is  true  !  it  is  all  fact !  ask  anybody  you  like  !  I  have  not 
exaggerated ! ' 

'My  dear  child,  I  know  you  have  not,'  said  Charles  Osmond, 
putting  his  strong  hand  upon  hers.  He  could  feel  tliat  she 
was  all  trembling  with  indignation.  AVas  it  to  be  wondered  at  1 
'  I  remember  those  riots  perfectly  well,'  he  continued.  *  I 
think  I  felt  and  feel  as  indignant  abotit  them  as  yourself.  A 
fearful  mistake  was  made  —  Mr.  llaeburn  was  shamefully 
treated.  But  Erica,' — it  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her 
by  her  name, — '  you  who  pride  yourself  upon  fairness,  you  who 
make  justice  your  watchword,  must  be  careful  not  to  let  the 
wrong-doing  of  a  few  Christians  prejudice  you  against  Christ- 
ianity. You  say  that  we  are  all  predisposed  to  accept  Christ ; 
but  candidly  you  must  allow,  I  tliink,  that  you  are  trebly  pre- 
judiced   against  the    very    name    of   Christian.     A    Christian 


HARD  AT  WOnK,  87 

almost  inevifably  means  to  you  only  one  of  your  father's 
mistaken  prosecutors.' 

'  Yes,  you  are  so  much  of  an  exception  that  I  always  forget 
you  are  one,'  said  Erica,  smiling  a  little.  '  Yet  you  are  not  like 
one  of  us  quite — you  somehow  stand  alone,  you  are  unlike  any 
one  I  ever  met ;  you  and  Thekla  Sonnenthal  and  your  son 
make  to  me  a  sort  of  new  variety.' 

Charles  Osmond  laughed,  and  changed  the  subject. 

'  You  are  busy  with  your  examination  work,  I  suppose  1 ' 
And  the  question  led  to  a  long  talk  about  books  and  lectures. 

In  truth.  Erica  had  plunged  into  work  of  all  kinds,  not 
merely  from  love  of  it,  but  because  she  felt  the  absolute  need 
of  fresh  interests,  the  great  danger  of  dwelling  unduly  on  her 
sorrow.  Then,  too,  she  had  just  grasped  a  new  idea,  an  idea 
at  once  noble  and  inspiriting.  Hitherto  she  had  thought  of  a 
happy  future  for  herself,  of  a  home  free  from  troubles  and 
harassing  cares.  That  was  all  over  now,  her  golden  dream  had 
come  to  an  end,  and  '  Hope  dead  lives  nevermore.'  The  life 
she  had  pictured  to  herself  could  never  be,  but  her  nature  was 
too  strong  to  be  crushed  by  the  sorrow  ;  physically  the  shock 
had  weakened  her  far  more  than  any  one  knew,  but,  mentally, 
it  had  been  a  wonderful  stimulant.  She  rose  above  herself, 
above  her  trouble,  and  life  began  to  mean  something  broader, 
and  deeper  than  before. 

Hitherto  her  great  desii-e  had  been  to  be  free  from  care,  and 
to  be  happy  ;  now  the  one  important  thing  seemed  not  so  much 
to  be  happy,  as  to  know.  To  learn  herself,  and  to  help  others 
to  learn,  became  her  chief  object,  and,  with  all  the  devotion  of 
an  earnest,  high-souled  nature,  she  set  herself  to  act  out  these 
convictions.  She  read  hard,  attended  lectures,  and  twice  a 
Aveek  taught  in  the  night  school  attached  to  the  Institute. 

Charles  Osmond  could  not  help  smiling  as  she  described  her 
days  to  him.  She  still  retained  something  of  the  childishness 
of  an  Undine,  and  as  they  talked  she  had  taken  up  her  old 
position  on  the  hearthrug,  and  Friskarina  had  crept  on  to  her 
knee.  Here,  undoubtedly,  was  one  whom  ignorant  people 
would  stigmatise  as  '  blue,'  or  as  a  ^femme  savcmte  ;'  they  would 
of  course  be  quite  wrong  and  inexpressively  foolish  to  use  such 
terms,  and  yet  there  was,  perhaps,  something  a  little  incon- 
gruous in  the  two  sides,  as  it  were,  of  Erica's  nature,  the  keen 
intellect  and  the  child-like  devotion,  the  great  love  of  learning 
and  the  intense  love  of  fun  and  humour.  Charles  Osmond  had 
only  once  in  all  his  long  years  of  experience  met  with  a 
character  which  interested  him  so  much. 


88  HARD  AT  WORK. 

'After  all,'  he  said,  -when  they  had  talked  for  some  time,  'I 
have  never  told  you  that  I  came  on  a  begging  en'and,  and  I 
half  fear  that  you  will  be  too  busy  to  undertake  any  more 
work.' 

Erica's  face  brightened  at  the  word ;  was  not  work  what  she 
lived  for  1 

*  Oh !  I  am  not  too  busy  for  anything  ! '  she  exclaimed. 
*  I  shall  quote  Marcus  Aurclius  to  you  if  you  say  I  haven't 
time  !     What  sort  of  work  ] ' 

'  Onh',  when  you  can,  to  come  in  to  us  in  the  afternoon  and 
read,  a  little  to  my  mother.  Do  you  think  you  could  ]  Her 
eyes  are  failing,  and  Brian  and  I  are  hard  at  work  all  day  ;  I  am 
afraid  she  is  very  dull.' 

'  I  should  like  to  come  very  much,'  said  Erica,  really  pleased 
at  the  suggestion.  '  What  sort  of  books  would  Mrs.  Osmond 
like?' 

'  Oh,  anything !  history,  travels,  science,  or  even  novels,  if 
you  are  not  above  reading  them  !' 

*  I  ]  of  course  not,'  said  Erica,  laughing.  '  Don't  you  think 
we  enjoy  them  as  much  as  other  people  1  when  there  is  time  to 
read  them,  at  least,  which  isn't  often.' 

Charles  Osmond  laughed. 

*  Very  well  then,  you  have  a  wide  field.  From  Carlyle  to 
Miss  Bird,  and  from  Ernst  Haeckcl  to  Charles  Reade.  I  should 
make  them  into  a  big  sandwich  if  I  were  you.' 

He  said  good-bye,  and  left  Erica  still  on  the  hearthrug,  her 
face  briglitcr  than  it  had  been  for  months. 

*  I  like  that  man,'  she  said  to  herself.  '  He's  honest  and 
thorough,  and  good  all  through.  Yet  how  in  the  world  does  he 
make  himself  believe  in  his  ci'eed  !  Goodness,  Christlikcness. 
He  looked  so  grand,  too,  as  he  said  that.  It  is  wonderful  what 
a  personal  sort  of  devotion  those  three  have  for  their  ideal.' 

She  wandered  away  to  recollections  of  Thckla  Sonnenthal, 
and  that  carried  her  back  to  the  time  of  their  last  parting,  and 
the  recollection  of  her  sorrow.  All  at  once  the  loneliness  of 
the  present  was  borne  in  upon  her  overwhelmingly  ;  she  looked 
round  the  little  room,  the  Ilkley  couch  was  pushed  away  into  a 
corner,  there  was  a  pile  of  newspapers  \ipon  it.  A  great  sob 
escaped  her.  For  a  minute  she  pressed  her  hands  tightly  to- 
gether over  her  eyes,  then  she  h\irriedly  opened  a  book  on 
'  Electricity,'  and  began  to  read  as  if  for  her  life. 

Slie  was  roused  in  about  an  hour's  time  by  a  laughing  ex- 
clamation.    She  started,  and  looking  up,  saw  her  cousin  Tom. 

*  Talk  about  absorption,  and  brown  studies  ! '  he  cried,  *  why, 


HARD  AT  WORK,  89 

you  beat  everything  I  ever  saw.  I've  been  looking  at  you  for 
at  least  three  minutes.' 

Tom  was  now  about  nineteen ;  he  had  inherited  the  auburn 
colouring  of  the  Raeburns,  but  otherwise  he  was  said  to  be  much 
more  like  the  Craigies.  He  was  nice-looking,  but  somewhat 
freckled,  and  though  he  was  tall  and  strongly  built,  he  somehow 
betrayed  that  he  had  led  a  sedentary  life  and  looked,  in  fact,  as 
if  he  wanted  a  training  in  gymnastics.  For  the  rest  he  was 
shrewd,  business-like,  good-natured,  and  at  present  very  con- 
ceited. He  had  been  Erica's  friend  and  playfellow  as  long  as 
sh3  could  remember,  they  were  brother  and  sister  in  all  but  the 
name,  for  they  had  lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  each  other 
all  their  lives,  and  now  shared  the  same  house. 

'  I  never  heard  you  come  in,'  she  said,  smiling  a  little. 

*  You  must  have  been  very  quiet.' 

'  1  don't  believe  you'd  hear  a  salute  fired  in  the  next  room 
if  you  were  reading,  you  little  bookworm  !  But  look  here  1  I've 
got  a  parody  on  the  chieftain  that'll  make  you  cry  with 
laughing.  You  remember  the  smashed  windows  at  the  meeting 
at  Rilchester  last  week  V 

Erica  remembered  well  enough,  she  had  felt  sore  and  angry 
about  it,  and  the  comments  in  the  newspapers  had  not  been 
consolatory.  She  had  learnt  to  dread  even  the  comic  papers  ; 
but  there  was  nothing  spiteful  in  the  one  which  Tom  produced 
that  evening.     It  was  headed  : — 

Scotch  Song. 

Time — '  'Ticas  within  a  mile  of  Edinhoro'  town.' 

'  'Twas  within  a  hall  of  Eilchester  town, 
In  the  bleak  spring-time  of  the  year, 
Luke  Eaeburn  gave  a  lecture  on  the  soul  of  man, 
And  found  that  it  cost  him  dear. 
Windows  all  were  smashed  that  day. 
They  said,  "  The  atheist  can  pay," 
But  Scottish  Eaeburn  frowning  cried, 
"  Na,  na,  it  winna  do, 
I  canna,  canna,  winna,  winna,  munna  pay  for  yon.'" 

The  parody  ran  on  through  the  three  verses  of  the  song, 
the  conclusion  was  really  witty,  and  there  was  no  sting  in  it. 
Erica  laughed  over  it  as  she  had  not  laughed  for  weeks.  Tom, 
who  had  been  trying  unsuccessfully  to  cheer  her  ever  since  her 
return,  was  quite  relieved, 

*  I   believe  the  sixpence  a-day  style   suits   you,'  he   said. 

*  But,  I  say,  isn't  anything  coming  up  ]  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
hunter.' 


90  HARD  AT  WORK. 

Their  elders  being  away  for  a  few  days,  Tom  and  Erica  were 
amusing  themselves  by  trying  to  Uve  on  the  rather  strange 
diet  of  the  man  who  pubhshed  his  plan  for  living  at  the 
smallest  possible  cost.  They  were  already  beginning  to  be 
rather  weary  of  porridge,  pea-soup,  and  lentils.  This  evening 
pea-soup  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  Erica,  tired  with  a  long 
aftei'uoon's  work,  felt  as  if  she  could  almost  as  soon  have  eaten 
Thames  mud. 

'  Dear  me,'  she  said,  '  it  never  struck  me,  this  is  our  Lenten 
penance  !  Now,  wouldn't  any  one  looking  in  fancy  we  were 
poor  Romanists  without  an  indidgencel' 

*  Certainly  without  any  self-indulgence,'  said  Tom,  who 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  making  a  bad  pun. 

'  It  would  be  a  great  indulgence  to  stop  eating,'  said  Erica, 
sighing  over  the  soup  yet  to  be  swallowed. 

'  Do  you  think  it  is  more  inspiriting  to  fast  in  order  to  save 
one's  soul,  than  it  is  to  pay  the  chieftain's  debts  1  I  wish  I 
could  honestly  say,  like  the  little  French  girl  in  her  confession, 
"J'ai  trap  mange."' 

Tom  dearly  loved  that  stoiy,  he  was  exceedingly  fond  of 
getting  choice  little  anecdotes  from  various  religious  news- 
papers, especially  those  which  dealt  in  much  abuse  of  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  he  retailed  them  con  amore.  Erica 
listened  to  several,  and  laughed  a  good  deal  over  them. 

'  I  wonder,  though,  they  don't  see  how  they  play  into  our 
hands  by  putting  in  these  things,'  she  said,  after  Tom  had  given 
her  a  description  of  some  ludicrous  attack  made  by  a  ritualist 
on  an  evangelical.  *  I  should  have  thought  they  wouid  have 
tried  to  agree  Avhenever  they  could,  instead  of  which  they  seem 
almost  as  spiteful  to  each  other  as  they  are  to  us.' 

'  They'd  know  better  if  they'd  more  than  a  grain  of  sense 
between  them,' said  Tom,  swccpingly,  '  but  they  haven't;  and  as 
they're  always  playing  battledore  and  shuttlecock  with  that,  it 
isn't  much  good  to  either.  Of  course  they  play  into  our  hands! 
I  believe  the  spiteful  ultra-higli  paper,  and  the  spiteful  ultra- 
low  paper  do  more  to  promote  atheism  than  the  Idol-Breaker 
itself 

'  How  dreadful  it  must  be  for  men  like  Mr.  Osmond,  who 
see  all  round,  and  yet  can't  stop  what  they  must  think  the 
mischief.     Mr.  Osmond  has  been  here  this  afternoon.' 

*  Ah,  now,  he's  a  stunning  fellow,  if  you  like,'  said  Tom. 
'  He's  not  one  of  the  pig-headed,  narrow-minded  set.  How 
he   comes   to  be   a  parson  I  can't  make  out.' 

'  Well,  you  see,  from  their  point  of  view  it  is  the  best  thing 


HARD  A.T  WORK.  91 

to  be,  I  mean  he  gets  plenty  of  scope  for  work.  I  fancy  ho 
feels  as  much  obliged  to  speak  and  teach  as  father  does.' 

'  Pity  he's  not  on  our  side,'  said  Tom,  'they  say  he's  a  first- 
rate  speaker.  But  I'm  afraid  he  is  perfectly  crazy  on  that 
point,  he'll  never  come  over.' 

'  I  don't  think  we've  a  right  to  put  the  whole  of  his  re- 
ligiousness down  to  a  mania,'  said  Erica.  '  Besides,  he  is  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  be  even  a  little  mad,  there's  nothing  the 
least  fanatical  about  him.' 

'  Call  it  delusion,  if  you  like  it  better.  "VVliat's  in  a  name  ? 
The  thing  remains  the  same  !  A  man  can't  believe  what  is 
utterly  against  reason  without  becoming,  as  far  as  that  particu- 
lar belief  is  concerned,  unreasonable,  beyond  the  pale  of  reason, 
therefore  deluded,  therefore  mad.' 

Erica  looked  perplexed ;  she  did  not  think  Tom's  logic 
altogether  good,  but  she  could  not  correct  it.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  want  of  generosity  about  the  assertion  which  instantly 
appealed  to  her  fine  sense  of  honour. 

'  I  can't  argue  it  out,'  she  said  at  last,  'butit  doesn't  seem  to 
me  fair  to  put  down  what  we  can't  understand  in  other  people  to 
madness;  it  never  seemed  to  me  quite  fair  for  Festus  to  accuse 
Paul  of  madness  when  he  really  had  made  a  splendid  defence, 
and  it  doesn't  seem  fair  that  you  should  accuse  Mr.  Osmond  of 
being  mad.' 

'  Only  on  that  one  point,'  said  Tom.  '  Just  a  little  touched, 
you  know.  How  else  can  you  account  for  a  man  like  that 
believing  what  he  professes  to  believe.' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Erica,  relapsing  into  perplexed  silence. 

'  Besides,'  continued  Tom,  'you  cry  out  because  I  say  they 
must  be  just  a  little  touclied,  but  they  accuse  us  of  something 
far  worse  than  madness,  they  accuse  us  of  absolute  wickedness.' 

'  Not  all  of  them,'  said  Erica. 

'  The  greater  part,'  said  Tom.  '  How  often  do  you  think 
the  chieftain  meets  with  really  fair  treatment  from  his  an- 
tagonists ? ' 

Erica  had  nothing  to  say  to  this.  The  harshness  and 
intolerance  which  her  father  had  constantly  to  encounter  was 
the  great  grief  of  her  life,  the  j^ei^petual  source  of  indignation, 
her  strongest  argument  against  Christianity. 

'  Have  you  much  to  do  to-night?'  she  asked,  not  anxious  to 
stir  xip  afresh  the  revolt  against  the  world's  injustice  which  the 
meiast  touch  would  set  working  within  her.  'I  was  thinking 
that,  if  there  was  time  to  spare,  we  might  go  to  see  tho 
professor ;  he  has  promised  to  show  me  some  experiments.* 


92  HARD  AT  WORK. 

'  Electricity  V  Tom  pricked  up  his  ears.  '  Not  half  a  bad 
idea.  If  you'll  help  me,  we  can  polish  off  the  letters  in  an  hour 
or  so,  and  be  free  by  eight  o'clock.' 

They  set  to  work,  and  between  them  disposed  of  tho 
correspondence. 

It  was  a  gi'cat  relief  to  Erica  after  her  long  day's  work  to 
be  out  in  the  cool  evening  air.  The  night  was  fine  but  very 
windy,  indeed  the  sudden  gusts  at  the  street  corners  made  her 
glad  to  take  Tom's  arm.  Once,  as  they  rather  slackened  their 
speed,  half  baffled  by  the  storm,  a  sentence  from  a  passer-by 
feU  on  their  ears.     The  speaker  looked  like  a  countryman. 

'  Give  me  a  good  gas-burner  with  pipes  and  a  meter  that  a 
honest  man  can  understand  !  Now  this  'ere  elective  light  I 
say  it's  not  canny ;  I've  no  belief  in  things  o'  that  kind,  it 
won't  never ' 

The  rest  of  the  speech  died  away  in  the  distance.  Tom  and 
Erica  laughed,  but  the  incident  set  Erica  thinking.  Here  was 
a  man  wdio  would  not  believe  what  he  could  not  understand, 
who  wanted  '  pipes  and  a  meter,'  and  for  want  of  comprehensible 
outward  signs  pooh-poohed  the  great  new  discovery. 

'  Tom,'  she  said,  slowly,  and  Avith  the  manner  of  one  who 
makes  a  very  unpleasant  suggestion,  reluctantly  putting  for- 
ward an  unwelcome  thought,  '  suppose  if,  after  all,  we  are  like 
that  man,  and  reject  a  grand  discovery  because  we  don't  know 
and  are  too  ignorant  to  imderstand  !  Tom,  just  suppose  if, 
after  all,  Christianity  shoiild  be  true  and  we  in  the  wrong  !' 

'  Just  suppose  if,  after  all,  the  earth  should  be  a  flat  plain 
with  the  sun  moving  round  it !'  replied  Tom,  scornfully. 

They  were  walking  down  the  Strand  ;  he  did  not  speak  for 
some  minutes,  in  fact  he  was  looking  at  the  people  who  passed 
by  them.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  a  great  contrast  stnick 
him.  Disreputable  vulgarity,  Avickedncss,  and  vice  stared  him 
in  the  face,  then  involuntarily  he  turned  to  Erica  and  looked 
down  at  her  scrutinisingly  as  he  had  never  looked  before.  She 
was  evidently  rapt  in  thought,  but  it  was  not  the  intellect  in 
her  face  which  he  thought  of  just  then,  though  it  was  ever 
noticeable,  nor  was  it  the  actual  beauty  of  feature  which  struck 
him,  it  was  rather  an  undefined  consciousness  that  here  was 
a  purity  which  was  adorable.  From  that  moment  he  became 
no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man  with  a  high  standard  of  woman- 
hood. Instantly  he  thought  with  regret  of  his  scornful  little 
speech, — it  was  contemptible  ! 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said,  abru])tly,  as  if  she  had  been 
following  his  whole  train  of  thou^rht.     '  Of  course  one  is  bound 


THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN.  93 

to  study  the  qiiestion  fairly ;  but  we  have  done  that,  and  all 
that  remains  for  us  is  to  live  as  usefully  as  we  can  and  as 
creditably  to  the  cause  as  may  be.' 

They  had  turned  down  one  of  the  dingy  little  streets  lead- 
ing to  the  river,  and  now  stood  outside  Professor  Gosse's  door. 
Erica  did  not  reply.  It  was  true  she  had  heard  arguments  for 
and  against  Christianity  all  her  life,  but  had  she  ever  studied 
it  with  strict  impartiality  1  Had  she  not  always  been  strongly 
biassed  in  favour  of  secularism?  Had  not  Mr.  Osmond  gone 
unpleasantly  near  the  mark  when  he  warned  her  against  being 
prejudiced  by  the  wrong-doing  of  a  few  modern  Christians 
against  Christianity  itself !  She  was  coming  now  for  special 
instruction  in  science  from  one  who  was  best  calculated  to 
teach ;  she  would  not  have  dreamt  of  asking  instiTiction  from 
one  who  was  a  disbeliever  in  science.  Would  the  same  apply 
in  matters  of  religious  belief?  Was  she  bound  actually  to 
ask  instruction  from  Charles  Osmond,  for  instance,  evv:;n  though 
she  believed  that  he  taught  error, — harmful  error?  Yet  who 
was  to  be  the  judge  of  what  Avas  error,  except  by  perfectly 
fair  consideration  of  both  sides  of  the  case.  Had  she  been 
fair  ?     What  was  perfect  fairness  ? 

But  people  must  go  on  living,  and  must  speak  and  act  even 
though  their  minds  are  in  a  chaos  of  doubts  and  questionings. 
They  had  reached  Professor  Gosse's  study,  or  as  he  himself 
called  it,  his  workshop,  and  Erica  turned  with  relief  to  tho 
verifiable  results  of  scientific  inquiry. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN. 

Great  grace,  as  saith  Sir  Thomas  More, 

To  him  must  needs  be  given, 

Who  heareth  heresy,  and  leaves 

The  heretic  to  Heaven.  Whittisr. 

The  clock  in  a  neighbouring  church  tower  was  just  striking 
five  on  a  warm  afternoon  in  June.  The  pillar-box  stood  at  the 
comer  of  Guilford  Square  nearest  the  church,  and  on  this  par- 
ticular afternoon  there  chanced  to  be  several  people  running  at 
the  last  moment  to  post  their  letters.  Among  others  were 
Brian  and  Erica.  Brian,  with  a  great  bundle  of  parish  notices, 
had  just  reached  the  box  when  running  down  the  other  side 
of  the  square  at  full  speed  he  saw  his  Undine  caiTying  a  bag 
full  of  letters.  He  had  not  met  her  for  some  weeks,  for  it  hap- 
pened to  have  been  a  busy  time  with  him,  and,  though  she  had 


94  THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN. 

been  very  good  in  coming  to  read  to  old  Mrs.  Osmond,  he  had 
always  just  missed  her. 

'  This  is  a  funny  meeting- place,'  she  exclaimed,  rather 
breathlessly.  '  It  never  struck  me  before  what  a  truly  national 
institution  the  Post  Office  is, — a  place  where  people  of  all  creeds 
and  opinions  can  meet  together,  and  are  actually  treated  ahke!' 

Brian  smiled. 

'  You  have  been  very  busy,'  he  said,  glancing  at  the  in- 
nTimerable  envelopes,  which  she  Avas  dropping  as  fast  as  might 
be  into  the  narrow  receptacle.  He  could  see  that  they  were 
directed  in  her  small,  clear,  delicate  hand-writing. 

*  And  you,  too,'  she  said,  looking  at  his  diminished  bundle. 
'  Mine  are  secularist  circulars,  and  yours,  I  suppose,  are  the 
other  kind  of  thing,  but  you  see  the  same  pillar  eats  them  up 
quite  contentedly.  The  Post  Office  is  beautifully  national,  it 
sets  a  good  example.' 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  a  peculiar  tone  in  her 
voice  which  betrayed  great  Aveariness.  It  made  Brian  look  at 
her  more  attentively  than  he  had  yet  done — less  from  a  lover's 
point  of  view,  more  from  a  doctor's.  She  was  very  pale. 
Though  the  running  had  brought  a  faint  colour  to  her  cheeks, 
her  lips  were  white,  her  forehead  'almost  deathly.  He  knew 
that  she  had  never  really  been  well  since  her  mother's  death, 
but  the  change  wrought  within  the  last  three  weeks  dismayed 
him  ;  she  was  the  mere  shadow  of  her  former  self. 

'This  hot  weather  is  trying  you,'  he  said. 

'  Something  is,'  she  replied.  '  Work,  or  weather,  or  worry, 
or  the  three  combined.' 

'  Come  in  and  see  my  father,'  said  Brian, '  and  be  idle  for  a 
little  time ;  you  will  be  writing  more  circulars  if  you  go  home.' 

'  No,  they  are  all  done,  and  my  examination  is  over,  and 
there  is  nothing  special  going  on  just  now;  I  think  that  is 
why  I  feel  so  like  breaking  down.' 

After  a  little  more  persuasion,  she  consented  to  go  in  and 
see  Mr.  Osmond.  The  house  always  had  a  peculiarly  restfid 
feehng,  and  the  mere  thought  of  rest  was  a  relief  to  her ;  she 
would  have  liked  the  wheels  of  life  to  stop  for  a  little  while, 
and  there  was  rest  in  the  mere  change  of  atmosphere.  On  the 
doorstep  Brian  encountered  a  j)aticnt,  much  to  his  vexation  ;  so 
he  could  only  take  Erica  into  the  study,  and  go  in  search  of  his 
father.     He  lingered,  however,  just  to  tell  him  of  his  fears. 

*  She  looks  jjerfectly  worn  out ;  you  must  find  out  what  ia 
wrong,  father,  and  make  her  promise  to  see  some  one.' 

His  tone  betrayed  such  anxiety  that  his  father  would  not 


THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN.  95 

smile,  although  he  was  secretly  amused  at  the  task  deputed  to 
him.  However,  clergyman  as  he  was,  he  had  a  good  deal  of 
the  doctor  about  him,  and  he  had  seen  so  much  of  sickness  and 
disease  during  his  long  years  of  hard  work  among  the  poor, 
that  he  was  after  all  about  as  ready  an  observer  and  as  good  a 
judge  as  Brian  could  have  selected. 

Erica,  leaning  back  in  the  great  easy-chair,  which  had  been 
moved  into  siimmer  quarters  beside  the  window,  heard  the 
slow,  soft  step  she  had  learned  to  know  so  well,  and  before  she 
had  time  to  get  up,  found  her  hand  in  Charles  Osmond's  strong 
clasp. 

'  How  comfortable  your  chair  is,'  she  said,  smiling ;  *  I 
believe   I   was  nearly  asleep.' 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  but  without  appearing  to 
study  her  face  in  any  way.  She  was  very  pale  and  there  was 
an  indefinable  look  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 

'Any  news  of  the  examination]'  he  asked,  sitting  down  op- 
posite her. 

'  No,  it  is  too  soon  yet,'  she  replied.  *  I  thought  I  should 
have  felt  so  anxious  about  it ;  but  do  you  know,  now  that  it  is 
over,  I  can't  make  myself  care  a  bit.  If  I  have  failed  alto- 
gether, I  don't  believe  I  shall  mind  very  much.' 

'  Too  tired  to  care  for  anything  V 

'  Yes,  I  seem  to  have  come  to  the  end.  I  wish  I  were  a 
watch,  and  could  run  down  and  rest  for  a  few  days  and  be 
wound  lap  again.' 

He  smiled.  '  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  to 
get  so  tired]' 

'  Oh,  nothing  pai-ticular ;  it  has  been  rather  a  long  day. 
Let  me  see  !  In  the  morning  there  were  two  delegates  from 
Rilchester  Avho  had  to  be  kept  in  a  good  temper  till  my  father 
was  ready  for  them ;  then  there  was  father's  bag  to  be  packed, 
and  a  rush  to  get  him  off  in  time  for  the  morning  express  to 
Longstaff.  Then  I  went  to  a  lecture  at  Soiith  Kensington,  aud 
then  by  train  to  Aldersgate  Street  to  see  Hazeldine's  wife,  who 
is  unconscionable  enough  to  live  at  the  top  of  one  of  the  model 
lodging-houses.  Then  she  told  me  of  another  of  our  people 
whose  child  is  ill,  and  they  lived  in  another  row  of  Compton 
Buildings  up  a  hundred  more  steps,  which  left  my  back  nearly 
broken.  And  the  poor  little  child  was  fearfully  ill,  aud  it  is  so 
dreadful  to  see  pain  you  can  do  nothing  for  ;  it  has  made  me 
feel  wretched  ever  since.  Then, — ^^Ict  me  think  —  oh,  I  got 
home  and  found  Aunt  Jean  with  a  heap  of  circulars  to  get  off, 
and  there  was  a  great  rush  to  get  them  ready  by  post  time,' 


96  THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN. 

She  paused ;  Charles  Osmond  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the 
careful  scrutiny  of  her  foce,  and  noticed  the  position  she  had 
taken  up  in  his  chair.  She  was  leaning  back  but  with  her 
arms  resting  on  the  arms  of  the  chair ;  not  merely  stretched 
out  upon  them,  but  rather  as  if  slie  used  tliem  for  support. 
His  eyes  wandered  back  again  to  her  face.  After  a  short 
silence,  he   spoke. 

'  You  have  been  feeling  very  tired  lately ;  you  have  had 
unaccountable  pains  flying  about  all  over  you,  but  specially 
your  back  has  felt,  as  you  just  said,  somewhat  "  broken."  You 
have  generally  noticed  this  when  you  have  been  walking,  or 
bending  over  your  desk  writing  for  the  Idol-Breaker.' 

She  laughed. 

'  Now,  please  don't  turn  into  a  clairvoyant ;  I  shall  begin  to 
think  you  uncanny ;  and,  besides,  it  Avould  be  an  argument  for 
Tom  when  we  quaiTcl  about  you.' 

'Then  my  surmises  are  tniel' 

'  Substitute  first  person  singular  for  second  plural,  and  it 
might  have  come  from  my  own  lips,'  said  Erica,  smiling.  '  But 
please  stop ;  I'm  afraid  you  will  try  to  turn  pi'o^^het  next,  and 
I'm  sure  you  will  prophesy  something  horrid.' 

'  It  would  need  no  very  clear-siglited  prophet  to  prophesy 
that  3'ou  will  have  to  let  your  wheels  run  down  for  a  little  while.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  you  think  I  shall  die  1 '  asked  Erica, 
languidly.  '  It  wouldn't  be  at  all  convenient  just  now  ;  father 
couldn't  spare  me.  Do  you  know,'  and  her  face  brightened, 
*  he  is  really  beginning  to  use  me  a  good  deal  !' 

'  I  didn't  mean  that  I  thought  your  wheels  would  nm  down 
in  that  way,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  touched  by  the  pathos  of 
her  words.  *  I  may  even  be  wrong,  but  I  think  you  will  want 
a  long  rest,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  musn't  lose  a  day  before 
seeing  a  doctor.  I  should  like  my  brother  to  see  you  ;  Brian 
is  only  junior  partner,  you  know.' 

'  What,  another  Mr.  Osmond  !  How  muddled  we  shall  get 
between  you  all  !'  said  Erica,  laughing. 

'  I  should  think  that  Brian  miglit  be  Brian  by  this  time,' 
said  Charles  Osmond,  '  that  will  dispose  of  one  ;  and  perhaps 
you  would  like  to  follow  the  examjJo  of  one  of  my  servants, 
who,  I  hear,  invariably  speaks  of  me  as  "the  dear  rev."' 

Erica  laughed. 

'  No,  I  shall  call  you  my  "  prophet,"  though  it  is  true  you 
have  begun  by  being  a  prophet  of  evil  !  By-the-by,  you  cannot 
say  again  that  I  am  not  impartial.  What  do  you  think  Tom 
and  I  did  last  wcekl' 


THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN.  97 

'  Read  the  New  Testament  backwards  ? ' 

*  No,  "vve  went  to  a  Holy  Scripture  Society  meeting  at 
Exeter  Hall' 

'  Hope  yon  were  edified/  said  Charles  Osmond,  with  a  little 
twinkle  in  his  eye ;  but  he  sighed,  nevertheless. 

'  Well,'  said  Erica,  *  it  was  rather  curious  to  hear  every- 
thing reversed,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  fun  altogether. 
They  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  numbers  of  bibles,  testa- 
ments, and  portions  which  had  been  sent  out.  There  was  one 
man  who  spoke  very  broadly,  and  kept  on  speaking  of  the 
^^ portiGn!^"  and  there  was  another  whom  we  called  the  "Great 
Door,"  because  eight  times  in  his  speech  he  said  that  a  great 
door  had  been  opened  for  them  in  Italy  and  other  places. 
Altogether,  I  thought  them  rather  smug  and  self-satisfied, 
especially  one  man  whose  fiice  shone  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion, and  who  remarked,  in  broad  Lincolnshire,  that  they  had 
been  "  Aboondantly  blessed."  After  his  speech  a  little  short, 
sleek,  oily  man  got  up,  and  talked  about  Providence.  Appa- 
rently it  had  been  very  kind  to  him,  and  he  thought  the  other 
sort  of  thing  did  best  for  those  who  got  it.  But  there  were 
one  or  two  really  good  speakers,  and  I  daresay  they  were  all 
in  earnest.  Still,  you  know,  Tom  a^d  I  felt  rather  like  fish 
out  of  water,  and  especially  when  they  came  to  sing,  "  Oh, 
Bible,  blessed  Bible  !"  and  a  lady  wovild  make  me  share  her 
hymn-book.  Then,  too,  there  was  a  collection,  and  the  man 
made  quite  a  pause  in  front  of  us,  and  of  course  we  couldn't 
give  anything.  Altogether,  I  felt  rather  hoi'rid  and  hypocritical 
for  being  there  at  all.' 

'  Is  that  your  only  experience  of  one  of  our  meetings  ] ' 

*  Oh,  no,  father  took  me  with  him  two  or  three  times  to 
"Westminster  Abbey  a  good  many  years  ago.  We  heard  the 
Dean ;  father  admii'ed  him  very  much.  I  like  Westminster 
Abbey.  It  seems  to  belong  a  little  to  us,  too,  because  it  is  so 
national.  And  then  it  is  so  beautiful,  and  I  liked  hearing  the 
music.  I  wonder,  though,  that  you  are  not  a  little  afraid  of 
having  it  so  much  in  your  worship  ;  I  remember  hearing  a 
beautiful  anthem  there  once,  Avhich  just  thrilled  one  all 
through.  I  wonder  that  you  don't  fear  that  people  should 
mistake  that  for  what  you  call  spiritual  fervour.' 

'  I  think,  perhaps,  there  is  a  danger  in  any  undue  introduc- 
tion of  externals,  but  any  one  whose  spirit  has  ever  been 
awakened  will  never  mistake  the  mere  thrill  of  sensuous  rapture 
for  the  quickening  of  his  spirit  by  the  Unseen.' 

'  You  are  talking  riddles  to  rae  now  ! '  said  Erica ;  '  but  I 


98  THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN. 

feel  sure  that  some  of  the  people  who  go  to  church  regularly 
ouly  like  it  because  of  that  appeal  to  the  senses.  I  shall  never 
forget  going  one  afternoon  into  Notre  Dame  with  Madame 
Lemercier.  A  flood  of  crimson  and  pui-ple  light  was  shining  in 
through  the  south  transept  windows.  You  could  see  the 
white-robed  priests  and  choristers — there  was  one  boy  with  the 
most  perfect  voice  you  can  conceive.  I  don't  know  what  tliey 
were  singing,  something  very  sweet  and  mournful,  and,  as  tliat 
one  voice  rang  xip  into  the  vaulted  roof,  I  saw  Madame 
Lemercier  fall  down  on  her  knees  and  pray  in  a  sort  of 
rapture.  Even  I  myself  felt  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes,  just 
because  of  the  loveliness,  and  because  the  blood  in  one's  veins 
seemed  to  bound.  And  then,  still  singing,  the  procession 
passed  into  the  nave,  and  the  lovely  voice  grew  more  and  more 
distant.  It  was  a  wonderful  effect ;  no  doubt  the  congregation 
thought  they  felt  devout,  but,  if  so,  then  I  too  felt  devout — 
quite  as  religious  as  they.  Your  spiritual  fervour  seems  to  me 
to  resolve  itself  into  artistic  effect  produced  by  an  appeal  to  the 
senses  and  emotions. 

'  And  I  must  repeat  my  riddle,'  said  Charles  Osmond, 
quietly.  No  awakened  spirit  could  ever  mistake  the  one  for 
the  other.  It  is  impossible  !  how  impossible  you  will  one  day 
realise.' 

'  One  evil  prophecy  is  enough  for  to-day  ! '  said  Erica, 
laughing.  '  If  1  stay  any  longer,  you  will  be  prophesying  my 
acceptance  of  Christianity.  No,  no,  my  father  will  be  grieved 
enough  if  your  first  prediction  comes  true,  but,  if  I  were  to  turn 
Christian,  I  think  it  would  break  his  heart!' 

She  rose  to  go,  and  Charles  Osmond  went  with  her  to  the 
door,  extracting  a  promise  that  she  would  discuss  things  with 
her  aunt,  and  if  she  approved  send  for  Mr.  Osmond  at  once. 
He  watched  her  across  the  square,  then  turning  back  into  his 
study  paced  to  and  fro  in  deep  thought.  Erica's  words  rang  in 
his  ears,  '  If  I  were  to  turn  Christian,  I  think  it  would  break 
his  heart ! '  How  strangely  this  child  was  situated  !  How 
almost  impossible  it  seemed  that  she  could  ever  in  this  world 
come  to  the  light !  And  yet  the  difficult}'  might  perhaps  be 
no  hindrance  to  one  so  beautifully  smcerc,  so  ready  to  endure 
anything  and  everything  for  the  sake  of  what  she  now  con- 
sidered truth.  She  had  all  her  father's  zeal  and  self-devotion  ; 
surely  the  offering  up  of  self,  even  in  a  mistaken  cause,  must 
sooner  or  later  lead  to  the  Originator  of  all  self-sacrifice. 
Surely  some  of  those  who  seem  only  to  thwart  God,  honestly 
deeming  Christianity  a  mischievous  delusion,  are  really  actmg 


THE  WHEELS  RUN  DOWN.  99 

more  in  His  spirit,  unconsciously  better  doing  His  will  than 
many  who  openly  declare  themselves  on  his  side  !  Yet,  as 
Charles  Osmond  mused  over  the  past  lives  of  Luke  Raeburn 
and  his  dantchter,  and  pictured  their  probable  future,  a  great 
grief  filled  his  heart.  They  were  both  so  loveable,  so  noble  ! 
that  they  should  miss  in  a  great  measure  the  best  of  life 
seemed  such  a  grievous  pity  !  The  chances  that  either  of 
them  would  renounce  atheism  were,  he  could  not  but  feel, 
infinitesimally  small.  Much  smaller  for  the  father  than  for 
the  child. 

It  was  true,  indeed,  that  she  had  never  fairly  grasped  any 
real  idea  of  the  character  of  Christ.  He  had  once  grasped  it  to 
a  certain  extent,  and  had  lost  the  perception  of  its  beauty  and 
truth.  It  was  true  also  that  Erica's  transparent  sincerity,  her 
quick  perception  of  the  beautiful  might  help  very  greatly  to 
overcome  her  deeply-ingrained  prejudices.  But  even  then 
what  an  agony — what  a  fearful  struggle  would  lie  before  her  ! 
'  I  think  it  would  break  his  heart ! '  Charles  Osmond  felt  his 
breath  come  fast  and  hard  at  the  mere  thought  of  such  a 
difference  between  the  father  and  daughter?  Could  human 
strength  possibly  be  equal  to  such  a  terrible  trial  1  For  these 
two  were  everything  to  each  other.  Erica  worshipped  her 
father,  and  Raeburn's  fatherhood  Avas  the  truest,  deepest, 
tenderest  part  of  his  character.  No,  human  strength  could  not 
do  it,  but, — 

'  I  am  ;  nyle  ye  drede  ! ' 

His  eye  fell  on  a  little  illuminated  scroll  above  his  mantel- 
piece, Wyclif's  rendering  of  Christ's  reassuring  words  to  the 
fearful  disciples.  Yes,  with  the  revelation  of  Himself,  He 
would  give  the  strength,  make  it  possible  to  dread  nothing,  not 
even  the  infliction  of  grief  to  one's  nearest  and  deai-est.  Much 
pain,  much  sacrifice  there  would  be  in  His  service,  but  dread — 
never  !  The  strength  of  the  '  I  am,'  bade  it  for  ever  cease.  In 
that  strength  the  weakest  could  conquei*. 

But  he  had  wondered  on  into  a  dim  future,  had  pictured  a 
struggle  which  in  all  probability  Avould  not  take  place.  Even 
were  that  the  case,  however,  he  needed  these  words  of  assur- 
ance all  the  more  himself.  They  wove  themselves  into  his 
reverie  as  he  paced  to  and  fro ;  they  led  him  further  and 
furtliCr  away  from  perplexed  surmises  as  to  the  future  of 
I'aeburn  and  Erica,  but  closer  to  their  souls,  because  they  took 
him  straight  to  the  '  God  and  Father  of  all,  who  is  above  all, 
and  through  all,  and  in  all.' 


100  raeburn's  home-coming. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  was  preparing  a  sermon  for  the 
following  Sunday,  there  came  a  knock  at  his  study  door.  His 
brother  came  in.  He  Avas  a  fine-looking  man  of  two  or  three 
and  fifty. 

'  I  can't  stay,'  he  said,  '  I've  a  long  round,  but  I  just  looked 
in  to  tell  you  about  your  little  heretic' 

Charles  Osmond  looked  up  anxiously. 

'It  is  as  you  thought,'  continued  his  brother.  'Slight 
curvature  of  the  spine.  She's  a  brave  little  thing ;  I  don't 
wonder  you  are  interested  in  her.' 

'  It  means  a  long  rest,  I  suppose  ] ' 

'  Yes,  I  told  her  a  year  in  a  recumbent  posture ;  for  I  fancy 
she  is  one  of  those  restless  beings  who  will  do  nothing  at  all 
unless  you  are  pretty  plain  with  them.  It  is  possible  that  six 
or  eight  months  may  be  sufficient.' 

'  How  did  she  take  it  1 ' 

'  Oh,  in  the  pluckiest  Avay  you  can  conceive  !  Tried  to 
laugh  at  the  prospect,  wanted  me  to  measure  her  to  see  how 
much  she  grew  in  the  time,  said  she  should  expect  at  least 
three  inches  to  reward  her.' 

*  A  Raeburn  could  hardly  be  deficient  in  courage.  Luke 
Raeburn  is  without  exception  the  bravest  man  I  ever  met.' 

'  And  I'd  back  his  daughter  against  any  woman  I  know,' 
said  the  doctor. 

He  left  the  room,  but  the  news  he  had  brought  caused  a 
long  pause  in  his  brother's  sermon. 


CHAPTER  Xir. 

raedurn's  homk-cominq. 

He  is  a  man  both  lovinp;  and  severe, 
A  tender  heart,  a  \Yill  inflexible. 

Longfellow. 

Luke  Raeburn  had  been  lecturing  in  one  of  the  large  manu- 
facturing to\ras.  It  was  the  hottest  part  of  a  sultry  day  in 
June.  He  was  returning  home,  and  sat  in  a  broiling  third- 
class  carriage  reading  a  paper.  Apparently  what  he  read  was 
the  reverse  of  gratifying,  fur  there  was  a  look  of  annoyance  on 
his  usually  serene  foce ;  he  was  displeased  with  the  report  of 
his  lecture  given  in  the  local  papers,  it  waft  calculated  to  mis- 
lead very  greatly. 


baeburn's  home  coming.  101 

Other  matters,  too,  were  harassing  him  just  then,  and  he 
was,  moreover,  paying  the  penalty  of  his  two  years'  campaign, 
in  which  his  almost  superhuman  exertions  and  the  privations 
he  had  voluntarily  endured  had  told  severely  upon  his  health. 
Possessed  of  a  singularly  well-regulated  mind,  and  having  in 
an  unusual  degree  the  inestimable  gift  of  common-ijense,  he 
nevertheless  often  failed  to  use  it  in  his  pei'sonal  affairs.  He 
had  no  idea  of  sparing  himself,  no  idea  of  husbanding  his 
strength ;  this  was  indeed  great,  but  he  treated  himself  as  if  it 
were  inexhaustible.  The  months  of  trouble  had  turned  his 
hair  quite  white ;  he  was  now  a  more  noticeable-looking  man 
than  ever. 

Not  unfrequently  he  made  friends  with  the  men  with  whom 
he  travelled ;  he  was  always  studying  life  from  the  working- 
man's  point  of  view,  and  there  was  such  a  charm  in  his  genial 
manner  and  ready  sympathy  that  he  invariably  succeeded  in 
drawing  people  out.  But  on  this  day  he  was  not  in  the 
humour  for  it ;  instead,  he  thought  over  the  abusive  article 
and  the  mangled  report  in  the  Longstaff  Mercury,  and  debated 
within  himself  whether  it  were  worth  an  action  for  libel.  His 
love  of  fighting  said  yes,  his  common-sense  said  no  ;  and  in  the 
end  common-sense  won  the  day,  but  left  him  doubly  depressed. 
He  moved  to  the  shady  side  of  the  carnage  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  He  was  a  great  lover  of  Nature,  and  Nature  was 
looking  her  loveliest  just  then.  The  trees,  in  all  the  freshness 
of  early  June,  lifted  their  foliage  to  the  bluest  of  skies,  the 
meadows  were  golden  with  buttercups,  the  cattle  grazed  peace- 
fully, the  hay-fields  waved  unmown  in  the  soft  summer  air, 
which,  though  sparing  no  breath  for  the  hot  and  dusty  ti"a- 
vellers,  was  yet  strong  enough  to  sweep  over  the  tall  grasses 
in  long,  undulating  waves  that  made  them  shimmer  in  the 
sunlight. 

Eaeburn's  face  grew  serene  once  more ;  he  had  a  very  quick 
perception  of  the  beautiful.  Presently  he  retired  again  behind 
a  newspaper,  this  time  the  Daily  Review,  and  again  his  brow 
grew  stern,  for  there  was  bad  news  from  the  seat  of  war  ;  he 
read  the  account  of  a  great  battle,  read  the  numbers  of  his 
slain  countrymen,  and  of  those  who  had  fallen  on  the  enemy's 
side.  It  was  an  inirighteous  war,  and  his  heart  burnt  within 
him  at  the  thought  of  the  inhuman  havoc  thus  caused  by  a 
false  ambition.  Again,  as  if  he  were  fiited  that  day  to  be 
confronted  with  the  dark  side  of  life,  the  papers  gave  a  long 
account  of  a  discovery  made  in  some  charity  school,  where 
young  children  had  been  hideously  ill-treated.     Raeburn,  who 


102  raeburn's  home-coming. 

was  the  most  fatherly  of  men,  could  hardly  restrain  the  ex- 
pression of  his  righteous  indignation.  All  this  mismanagement, 
this  reckless  waste  of  life,  this  shameful  cruelty,  was  going  on 
in  Avhat  was  called  '  Free  England.'  And  here  was  he,  a 
middle-aged  man,  and  time  was  passing  on  with  frightful 
rapidity,  and,  though  he  had  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
lifting  up  his  voice  against  oppression,  how  little  had  he 
actually  accomplished  ! 

*  So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be  1 ' 

That  was  the  burden  of  the  luiuttured  ciy  which  filled  his 
whole  being.  That  was  the  point  where  his  atheism  often 
brought  him  to  a  noble  despair.  But  far  from  prompting  him 
to  repeat  the  maxim — *  Let  us  eat  and  dx'ink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die  ! '  it  spurred  him  on  rather  to  a  sort  of  ficiy  energy,  never 
satisfied  with  what  it  had  accomplished.  Neither  the  dis- 
satisfaction, however,  nor  even  the  despair  ever  made  him  feel 
the  need  of  any  power  above  man.  On  the  contrary,  the  un- 
accountable mystery  of  pain  and  evil  was  his  strongest  argu- 
ment against  the  existence  of  a  God.  Upon  that  rock  he  had 
foundered  as  a  mere  boy,  and  no  argument  had  ever  been  able 
to  reconvince  him.  Impatience  of  present  ill  had  in  this,  as  in 
many  other  cases,  proved  the  bane  of  his  life. 

He  would  write  and  speak  about  these  cases  of  injustice,  he 
would  hold  them  up  to  the  obloquy  they  so  richly  deserved. 

Scathing  sentences  already  took  shape  in  his  brain,  but 
deeper  investigation  would  be  necessary  before  he  could  write 
anything.  In  the  meantime  to  cool  himself,  to  bring  himself 
into  a  judicial  frame  of  mind,  he  took  a  Hebrew  book  from  his 
bag,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  hard  study. 

Harassed,  and  tired,  and  out  of  spirits  as  he  was,  he 
nevertheless  felt  a  certain  pleasurable  sensation  as  he  left 
St.  Pancras,  driving  homeward  tlu'ough  the  hot  crowded  streets. 
Erica  would  be  waiting  for  him  at  home,  and  he  had  a  com- 
paratively leisure  afternoon.  There  was  the  meeting  on  the 
Opium  Trade  at  eight,  b\it  he  might  take  her  for  a  turn  in  one 
of  the  parks  beforehand.  Slie  had  always  been  a  companion 
to  him  since  her  veiy  babyhood,  but  now  he  was  able  to  enjoy 
her  companionship  even  more  than  in  the  olden  times.  Her 
keen  intellect,  her  ready  sympathy,  her  eagerness  to  learn, 
made  lier  the  perfection  of  a  disciple,  while  not  unnaturally  he 
delighted  in  tracing  the  many  similarities  of  character  between 


raeburn's  home-coming.  103 

himself  and  his  child.  Then,  too,  in  his  hard,  argumentative, 
fighting  life  it  was  an  unspeakable  relief  to  be  able  to  retire 
every  now  and  then  into  a  home  Avhich  no  outer  stonns  could 
shake  or  disturb.  Fond  as  he  was  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Craigie, 
and  Tom,  they  constituted  rather  the  innermost  circle  of  his 
friend  and  followers  ;  it  was  Erica  who  made  the  Home,  though 
the  others  shared  the  house.  It  was  to  Erica's  pure  childlike 
devotion  that  he  invariably  turned  for  comfort. 

Dismissing  the  cab  at  the  coiTier  of  Guilford  Square,  he 
walked  down  the  dreary  little  passage,  looking  up  at  the 
window  to  see  if  she  were  watching  for  him  as  usual.  But 
to-day  there  was  no  expectant  face ;  he  recollected,  however, 
that  it  was  Thursday,  always  a  busy  day  with  them. 

He  opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key  and  went  in ;  still 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  house  ;  he  half-paused  for  an  instant, 
thinking  that  he  should  certainly  hear  quick  footsteps,  the 
opening  of  a  door,  some  sign  of  welcome,  but  all  was  as  silent 
as  death.  Half-angry  with  himself  for  having  grown  so 
expectant  of  that  loving  watch  as  to  be  seriously  apprehensive 
at  its  absence,  he  hastily  put  dow^n  his  bag  and  walked  into  the 
sitting-room,  his  calm  exterior  belying  a  nameless  fear  at  his 
heart. 

What  the  French  call  expressively  a  '  serrement  de  caetir ' 
seized  him  when  he  saw  that  Erica  was  indeed  at  home,  but 
that  she  was  lying  on  the  couch.  She  did  not  even  spring  up 
to  greet  him. 

'  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  ]  Are  you  ill  1 '  he  asked, 
hurriedly  crossing  the  little  room. 

'  Oh,  have  you  not  seen  Aunt  Jean  1  she  was  going  to  meet 
you  at  St.  Pancras,'  said  Erica,  her  heart  failing  her  a  little  at 
the  prospect  at  telling  her  own  bad  news.  But  the  exceeding 
anxiety  of  her  father's  face  helped  her  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 
She  laughed,  and  the  laugh  was  natural  enough  to  reassure 
him. 

'  It  is  nothing  so  very  dreadful,  and  all  this  time  you  have 
never  even  given  me  a  kiss,  father.'  She  drew  down  the  grand- 
looking  white  head,  and  pressed  her  fair  face  to  his.  He  sat 
down  beside  her. 

'  Tell  me,  dear,  what  is  wrong  with  you,'  he  repeated. 

'  Well,  I  felt  rather  out  of  order,  and  they  said  I  ought  to 
see  some  one,  and  it  seems  that  my  tiresome  spine  is  getting 
crooked,  and  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  Mr.  Doctor 
Osmond  says  I  shall  get  quite  well  again  if  I'm  careful ;  but' — 
she  added,  lightly,  yet  with  the  gentleness  of  one  who  thinks 


104  RAEBURX's  HOME-COMING. 

merely  of  the  hearer's  point  of  view, — *  I  shall  have  to  be  a 
passive  verb  for  a  year,  and  you  will  have  to  be  my  "Very  strong 
man  Kwasind."' 

*A  year?'  he  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

*  Brian  half  gave  me  hope  that  it  miglit  not  be  so  long,'  said 
Erica,  *  if  I'm  very  good  and  careful,  and  of  course  I  shall  be 
botL  I  am  only  sorry  because  it  will  make  me  very  useless. 
I  did  hope  I  should  never  have  been  a  burden  on  you  again, 
Hither.' 

*  Don't  talk  of  such  a  thing,  my  httle  son  Eric,'  he  said,  very 
tenderly.  '  Who  should  take  care  of  you  if  not  your  own 
father.  Besides,  if  you  never  wrote  another  line  for  me,  you 
would  help  me  by  just  being  yourself.     A  burden  !' 

'  AVell,  I've  made  you  look  as  grave  as  half-a-dozen  law- 
suits ! '  said  Erica,  pretending  to  stroke  the  lines  of  care  from 
his  forehead.  '  I've  had  the  morning  to  ruminate  over  the 
prospect,  and  really  now  that  you  know,  it  is  not  so  very 
dreadful.     A  year  will  soon  pass.' 

'  I  look  to  you,  Eric,'  said  her  father.  '  To  show  the  world 
that  we  secularists  know  how  to  bear  pain.  You  won't  w-aste 
the  year,  if  you  can  do  it.' 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

'It  was  like  you  to  think  of  that !'  she  said,  'that  would 
indeed  be  worth  doing.' 

Still,  do  what  she  would,  Erica  could  not  talk  him  back  to 
cheerfulness.  He  was  terribly  distressed  at  her  news,  and  more 
so  when  he  found  that  she  was  suffering  a  good  deal.  He 
thought  with  a  pang  of  the  difference  of  the  reality  to  his 
expectations.  No  walk  for  them  in  the  park  that  evening,  nor 
probably  for  many  yeai's  to  come  !  Yet  he  was  ignorant  of 
these  matters,  perhaps  he  exaggerated  the  danger  or  the  dura- 
tion ;  he  would  go  across  and  see  Brian  Osmond  at  once  ! 

Left  once  more  to  herself,  the  coloiir  died  out  of  Erica's 
cheeks  ;  slie  lay  there  pale  and  still,  but  her  face  was  almo:jt 
rigid  with  resoluteness, 

*  I  am  not  going  to  give  way! '  she  thought  to  herself.  'I 
won't  shed  a  single  tear.  Tears  are  Avasteful  luxuries,  bad  for  body 
and  mind.  And  yet — yet — oh,  it  is  hard  just  when  I  wanted  to 
lielp  father  most !  Just  when  I  wanted  to  keep  him  from  being 
worried.  And  a  whole  year !  How  shall  I  bear  it,  when  even 
six  hours  has  seemed  half  a  life-time !  This  is  what  Thekla 
would  call  a  cross,  but  I  only  call  it  my  horrid,  stupid,  idiotic 
old  spine  !  Well,  I  must  try  to  show  them  that  Luke  Kacburu's 
daughter  knows  how  to  bear  pain ;  I  must  be  patient,  however 


LOSING  ONE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER.  105 

much  I  boil  over  in  private.  Yet  is  it  honest,  I  wonder,  to 
keep  a  patient  outside,  while  inside  you  are  all  one  big  grumble'? 
Kather  Pharisaical — outside  of  the  cup  and  platter  ;  but  it  is  all 
I  shall  be  able  to  do,  I'm  sure.  That  is  where  Mr.  Osmond's 
Christianity  would  come  in ;  I  do  believe  that  goes  right 
through  his  life,  privatest  thoughts  and  all.  Odd,  that  a 
delusion  should  have  such  power,  and  over  such  a  man  !  There 
is  Sir  Michael  Cunningham,  too,  one  of  the  greatest  and  best 
men  in  England,  yet  a  Christian  !  Great  intellects  and  much 
study,  and  still  they  remain  Christians — 'tis  extraordinary. 
But  a  Christian  would  have  the  advantage  over  me  in  a  case 
like  this.  First  of  all,  I  suppose,  they  would  feel  that  they 
could  serve  their  God  as  well  on  their  backs  as  upright,  while  all 
the  help  I  shall  be  able  to  give  the  cause  is  dreadfully  indirect 
and  problematical.  Then  certainly  they  would  feel  that  they 
might  be  getting  I'eady  for  the  next  world  where  all  wrong  is, 
they  believe,  to  be  set  right,  while  I  am  only  terribly  hindered 
in  getting  ready  for  this  woi'ld, — a  whole  year  without  the 
chance  of  a  lecture  1  And  then  they  have  all  kinds  of  nice 
theories  about  pain,  discipline,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  which  no 
doubt  make  it  more  bearable,  while  to  me  it  is  just  the  one  \\n- 
mitigated  evil.  But  oh  !  they  don't  know  what  pain  means !  for 
there  is  no  death  to  them — no  endless  separation.  What  a  delu- 
sion it  is !  they  ought  to  be  happy  enough.  Oh,  mother !  mother  ! ' 
After  all,  what  she  really  dreaded  in  her  enforced  pause  was 
the  leisure  for  thought.  She  had  plunged  into  work  of  all  kinds, 
had  half-killed  herself  with  work,  had  tried  to  hold  her  despair 
at  arms'  length.  But  now  there  was  no  help  for  it.  She  must 
rest,  and  the  thoughts  must  come. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LOSING  ONE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER. 

For  toleration  had  its  griefs, 

And  charity  its  trial.  Whittier 

'  WixL,  Osmond,  you  got  into  hot  water  a  few  years  ago  for 
defending  Raeburn  in  public,  and  by  this  time  you  will  find  it 
not  merely  hot,  but  up  to  boiling  point.  The  fellow  is  more 
notorious  than  ever.' 

The  speaker  was  one  of  Charles  Osmond's  college  friends, 
a  certain  Mr.  Roberts,  who  had  been  abroad  for  a  good  many 


106  LOSING  OXE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTIIEa 

years,  but,  having  returned  on  account  of  his  health,  had  for  a 
few  montlis  been  acting  as  curate  to  his  friend. 

'  A  man  who  works  as  indefatigably  as  Mr.  Raebiim  has  done 
can  hardly  avoid  being  noticed,'  re^jlied  Charles  Osmond. 

'You  speak  as  if  you  admired  the  fellow  !' 

'  There  is  a  great  deal  to  admire  in  Mr.  Raeburn.  However 
greatly  mistaken  he  is,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  is  a  brave  man, 
and  an  honest.' 

'You  cau  speak  in  such  a  way  of  a  man  who  makes  his  living 
by  speaking  and  writing  against  (!od  !' 

'  I  hope  I  can  speak  the  truth  of  every  man,  whether  his 
creed  agTccs  with  mine  or  not.' 

'A  man  who  grows  rich  on  blasphemy  !  who  sows  poison 
among  the  people  and  reaps  the  harvest !'  exclaimed  Mr.  Roberts. 

'That  he  teaches  fearful  error,  I  quite  allow,'  said  Chai'les 
Osmond,  'but  it  is  the  grossest  injustice  to  say  that  he  does  it 
for  gain.  His  atheism  brought  him  to  the  very  brink  of 
starvation  some  3'ears  ago.  Even  now,  he  is  so  crippled  by  the 
endless  litigation  he  has  had  that  he  lives  in  absolute  penury.' 

'  But  that  letter  you  sent  to  the  C'Jnirch  Chronicle  was  so 
uncalled  for,  you  put  the  comparison  so  broadly.' 

'  I  put  it  in  plain  English,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  '  I  merely 
said,  as  I  think,  that  he  puts  many  of  us  to  shame  by  his  great 
devotion.  The  letter  was  a  reply  to  a  very  unfair  article  about 
the  Rilchester  riot ;  it  was  absolutely  necessaiy  that  some  one 
should  speak.  I  tell  you,  Roberts,  if  you  knew  the  man,  you 
could  not  speak  so  bitterly  of  him.  It  is  not  true  that  he  leads 
a  selfish,  easj'-going  life  ;  he  has  spent  thousands  and  thousands 
of  pounds  in  the  defence  of  his  cause.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a 
man  in  England  who  has  led  a  more  self-denying  life.  It  may  be 
very  uncomfortable  news  for  us,  but  we've  no  right  to  shut  our 
ears  to  it.  I  wish  that  man  could  stir  up  an  honest  sense  of 
shame  in  every  sleepy  Christian  in  the  country.  I  believe 
that,  indeed,  to  be  his  rightful  mission.  Raeburn  is  a  grand 
text  for  a  sermon  which  the  nation  sorely  needs.  "  Here  is  a 
man  who  spends  his  whole  strength  in  propagating  his  so-called 
gospel  of  atheism.  Do  you  sjiend  your  whole  strength  in 
spreading  the  gospel  of  Christ?  Hero  is  a  man,  willing  to  leave 
liis  home,  willing  to  live  without  one  single  luxury,  denying 
himself  all  that  is  not  necessary  to  actual  health.  Have  you 
ever  denied  yourself  anything]  Here  is  a  man  who  spends  his 
whole  living — all  that  he  has — on  what  he  believes  to  be  the 
truth.  What  meagre  tithe  do  you  bestow  upon  the  religion  of 
which  you  speak  so  much  ?     Here  is  a  man  who  dares  to  stand 


L03IXG  OXE  FRIEXD  TO  GAIN  AXOrHER.  107 

up  alone  in  defence  of  -what  he  holds  true,  a  man  who  never 
flinches.  How  far  are  you  brave  in  the  defence  of  your  faith  1 
I)o  you  never  keep  a  prudent  silence  1  Do  you  never  howl  with 
theVolves?"' 

'  Thank  heaven  you  are  not  in  the  pulpit ! '  ejaculated  Mr. 
Koberts. 

'  1  wish  those  words  could  be  sent  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 

'  No  doubt  Mr.  Raeburn  would  thank  you,'  said  his  friend, 
with  a  shai-p-edged  smile.  *  It  would  be  a  nice  little  advertise- 
ment for  him.  Why,  from  a  Church  of  England  parson  it 
would  make  his  fortune  !  My  dear  Osmond,  you  are  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world,  but  don't  you  see  that  you  are  playing  into 
the  enemy's  hands.' 

'  I  am  tr\-ing  to  speak  the  words  that  God  has  given  me  to 
speak,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  The  result  I  can  well  trust  to 
Him.  An  uncomfortable  tnith  will  never  be  popular.  The 
words  of  our  Lord  Himself  were  not  popxilar ;  but  they  sank 
into  men's  heai-ts  and  bore  fruit,  though  he  was  put  to  death 
as  a  blasphemer  and  a  revolutionary.' 

'  Well,  at  least  then,  if  you  must  take  up  the  cudgels  in  his 
defence,  do  not  dishonour  the  clerical  profession  by  personal  ac- 
quaintaiice  with  the  man.  I  hear  that  he  has  been  seen 
actually  in  your  house,  that  you  are  even  intimate  with  his 
family.' 

'  Roberts,  I  did'nt  think  our  beliefs  were  so  very  different, 
in  fact,  I  used  to  think  we  were  nearer  to  each  other  on  these 
points  than  most  men.  Surely  we  both  own  the  universal 
Fatherhood  of  God  1 ' 

'  Of  course,  of  course,'  said  Mr,  Roberts,  quickly. 

'  And  owning  that,  we  cannot  help  owning  the  universal 
brotherhood  of  men.  Why  should  you  then  cut  yourself  off 
from  your  brother,  Luke  Raeburn  ? ' 

'  He's  no  brother  of  mine  ! '  said  Mr.  Roberts,  in  a  tone  of 
disgust. 

Cliarles  Osmond  smiled. 

'  We  do  not  choose  our  brothers,  we  have  no  voice  in  tlie 
growth  of  the  family.     There  they  arc.' 

'  But  the  man  saj-s  there  is  no  God  ! ' 

'  Excuse  me,  he  has  never  said  that.  What  he  says  is,  that 
the  word  God  conveys  no  meaning  to  him.  If  you  think  that 
the  best  way  to  show  your  belief  in  the  All-Father  and  your 
love  to  all  His  children  lies  in  refusing  so  much  as  to  toiich 
those  who   don't    know    Ilim,  you   ai'e  of   course  justified  in 


108  LOSIXQ  OXE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOinER. 

shunning  every  atheist  or  agnostic  in  the  world.  But  I  do  not 
think  that  the  best  way.  It  was  not  Christ's  way.  Therefore 
I  hail  every  possible  opportunity  of  meeting  ]Mr.  Raeburn  or 
his  colleagues,  try  to  find  all  the  points  we  have  in  common, 
try  as  far  as  possible  to  meet  them  on  their  own  ground.' 

'  And  the  result  will  be  that  people  will  call  you  an  atheist 
yourself  ! '  broke  in  Mr.  Roberts. 

'  Tliat  would  not  greatly  matter,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  It 
would  be  a  mere  sting  for  the  moment.  It  is  not  what  men 
call  us  that  we  have  to  consider,  but  how  we  are  fulfilling  the 
work  God  has  given  us  to  do.' 

'  'Pon  my  life,  it  makes  me  feel  sick  to  hear  you  talk  like 
this  about  that  miserable  Raeburn ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Roberts, 
hotly.  '  I  tell  you,  Osmond,  that  you  ai'c  ruining  your  reputa- 
tion, losing  all  chance  of  preferment,  just  because  of  this 
mistaken  zeal.  It  makes  me  furious  to  think  that  such  a  man 
as  you  should  suffer  for  such  a  creature  as  Raeburn.' 

'  Have  you  forgotten  that  such  creatures  as  you  and  I  and 
Luke  Raebuni  had  s\ich  a  Saviour  as  Jesus  Christ?  Come 
Roberts,  in  your  heart  you  know  you  agree  with  me.  If  one  is 
indeed  our  Father,  then  indeed  we  are  all  brethren.' 

'  I  do  not  hold  with  you  1 '  retorted  Mr.  Roberts,  the  more 
angrily  because  he  had  really  hoped  to  convince  his  friend.  '  I 
wouldn't  sit  in  the  same  room  with  the  fellow,  if  you  offered  ine 
the  richest  living  in  England  !  I  wouldn't  shake  hands  with 
liim  to  be  made  an  archbishop  !  I  wouldn't  touch  him  .vith  a 
pair  of  tongs  ! ' 

'Even  less  charitable  than  St.  Dunstan  to  the  dc'sil,' said 
Charles  Osmond,  smiling  a  little  but  sadly.  '  Except  in  that 
old  legend,  however,  I  don't  think  Christianity  ever  mentions 
tongs.  If  you  can't  love  your  enemies,  and  pray  for  them,  and 
hold  out  a  brotherly  hand  to  them,  perhaps  it  wex'e  indeed 
better  to  hold  aloof  and  keep  as  quiet  as  you  can.' 

'  It  is  clearly  impossible  for  us  to  work  together  any  longer, 
Osmond,'  said  Mr.  Roberts,  rising.  '  I  am  sorry  that  such  a 
cause  should  separate  iis,  but  if  you  will  persist  in  visiting  an 
outcast  of  societ}',  a  professed  atheist,  the  most  bitter  enemy  of 
our  church,  I  cannot  allow  my  name  to  be  associated  with 
yours, — it  is  impossible  tliat  I  should  hold  office  under  you.' 

So  the  two  friends  parted. 

Charles  Osmond  was  human,  and  almost  inevitably  a  sort  of 
reaction  began  in  his  mind  the  instant  he  was  alone.  He  had 
lost  one  of  his  best  friends,  he  knew  as  well  as  possible  that 
they  could  never  be  on  the  same  footing  as  before.     Ho  had. 


LOSING  ONE  PBIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER.  109 

moreover,  lost  in  him  a  valuable  co-worker.  Then,  too,  it  was 
true  enough  that  his  defence  of  Raeburn  was  bringing  him  into 
great  disfavour  with  the  religious  world,  and  he  was  a  sensitive 
and  naturally  a  proud  man,  who  found  blame,  and  reproach, 
aud  contemptuous  disapproval  very  hard  to  bear.  Years  of 
hard  fighting,  years  of  patient  imitation  of  Christ  had  wonder- 
fully ennobled  him  ;  but  he  had  not  yet  attained  to  the  sublime 
humility  which,  being  free  from  all  thought  of  self,  cares  nothing, 
scarcely  even  pauses  to  think  of  the  world's  judgment,  too  ab- 
sorbed in  the  work  of  the  Highest  to  have  leisure  for  thought 
of  the  lowest,  too  full  of  love  for  the  race  to  have  love  to  spare 
for  self.  To  this  ideal  he  was  struggling,  but  he  had  not  yet 
reached  it,  and  the  thought  of  his  own  reputation,  his  own 
feelings,  would  creep  in.  He  was  not  a  selfishly  ambitious  man, 
but  every  one  who  is  conscious  of  ability,  every  one  who  feels 
within  him  energies  lying  fallow  for  want  of  opportunity,  miist 
be  ambitious  for  a  larger  sphere  of  work.  Just  as  he  was  be- 
ginning to  dare  to  allow  himself  the  hope  of  some  change  in  his 
work,  some  wider  field,  just  as  he  was  growing  sure  enough  of 
himself  to  dare  to  accept  any  greater  work  which  might  have 
been  ofiered  to  him,  he  must,  by  bringing  himself  into  evil  repute, 
lose  every  chance  of  preferment.  And  for  what]  For  attempting 
to  obtain  a  just  judgment  for  the  enemy  of  his  faith;  for  holding 
out  a  brotherly  hand  to  a  man  who  might  very  probably  not 
care  to  take  it ;  for  consorting  with  those  who  would  at  best 
regard  him  as  an  amiable  fanatic.  Was  this  worth  all  it  would 
cost?  Could  the  exceedingly  problematical  gain  make  up  for 
the  absolutely  certain  loss. 

He  took  up  the  day's  newspaper.  His  eye  was  at  once 
attracted  to  a  paragraph  headed,  '  Mr.  Raeburn  at  LongstafF.' 
The  repoi't,  sent  from  the  same  source  as  the  report  in  the 
Longstaff  Mercury,  which  had  so  greatly  displeased  Eaeburn 
that  morning,  struck  Charles  Osmond  in  a  most  unfavourable 
light.  Tjiis  bitter  opponent  of  Christianity,  this  unsparing 
denouncer  of  all  that  he  held  most  sacred,  this  was  the  man 
for  whom  he  was  sacrificing  friendship,  reputation,  advance- 
ment. A  feeling  of  absolute  disgust  rose  within  him.  For  a 
moment  the  thought  came,  '  I  can't  have  any  more  to  do  with 
the  man.' 

But  he  was  too  honest  not  to  detect  almost  at  once  his  own 
Pharisaical,  un-Christlike  spirit. 

'  Look  not  every  man  on  his  own  things,  but  every  man  also 
on  the  things  of  others.  Let  this  mind  be  in  yoii  which  was 
also  in  Christ  Jesus.'  ' 


110  LOSING  ONE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOIUER. 

He  had  been  selfishly  consulting  his  own  happiness,  hitj  o^^l 
ease.  Worse  still,  he,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  had  dared  to 
set  himself  up  as  too  virtuons  forsooth  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  an  atheist.  Was  that  the  mind  which  was  in  Christ? 
Was  He  a  strait-laced,  self-righteous  Pliarisee,  too  good,  too 
religious  to  have  anything  to  say  to  those  who  disagreed  with 
Him  1  Did  He  not  live  and  die  for  those  who  were  yet  enemies 
to  God  ]  Was  not  the  work  of  reconciliation  the  work  He  came 
foi  ?  Did  he  calculate  the  loss  to  Himself,  the  risk  of  failure'? 
Ah,  no,  those  who  would  imitate  God  must  ^u'st  give  as  a  free 
gift,  without  thought  of  self,  perfect  love  to  all,  perfect  justice 
through  that  love,  or  else  they  are  not  like  the  Father  who 
'  maketh  His  sun  to  shine  on  the  evil  and  the  good,  and  sendeth 
i-ain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust.' 

Charles  Osmond  paced  to  and  fro,  the  look  of  trouble 
gradually  passing  fi-om  his  face.  Presently  he  paused  beside 
the  open  window ;  it  looked  upon  the  little  back  garden,  a  tiny 
strip  of  ground  indeed,  but  just  now  bright  with  sunshine  and 
fresh  with  the  beauty  of  early  summer.  The  sunshine  seemed 
to  steal  into  his  heart  as  he  prayed. 

'  All-Father,  drive  out  my  selfish  cowardice,  my  self-righteous 
conceit.  Give  me  Thy  spirit  of  perfect  love  to  all,  give  mc  Thy 
pure  hatred  of  sin.  Melt  my  coldness  with  Tliy  burning 
charity,  and  if  it  be  possible  make  me  fit  to  be  Luke  llaeburn's 
friend.' 

While  he  still  stood  by  the  window  a  visitor  was  announced. 
He  had  been  too  much  absorbed  to  catch  the  name,  but  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  that  on  turning  round  he 
should  find  himself  face  to  face  with  the  prophet  of  atheism. 

There  he  stood,  a  splendid  specimen  of  humanity ;  every 
line  in  his  rugged  Scottish  face  bespoke  a  character  of  extra- 
ordinary force,  but  the  eyes  which  in  public  Charles  Osmond 
had  seen  flashing  with  the  fire  of  the  man's  enthusiasm,  or 
gleaming  with  a  cold  metallic  light  which  indicated  exactly 
his  steely  endurance  of  ill-treatment,  were  now  softened  and 
deepened  by  sadness.  His  heart  went  out  to  him.  Already 
lie  loved  the  man,  only  hitherto  the  world's  opinions  had  crept 
into  his  heart  between  each  meeting,  and  had  paralysed  the  free 
God-like  love.  But  it  was  to  do  so  no  longer.  That  afternoon 
he  had  dealt  it  a  final  blow,  there  was  no  more  any  room  for 
it  to  rear  its  fair-speaking  form,  no  longer  shiaild  its  veiled 
sclfishncsi?,  its  so-called  virtuous  indignation  turn  him  into  a 
Pharisaical  judge. 

He  deceived    him  with    a  hand-shake  which    conveyed  to 


LOSING  ONE  FRIEND  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER,  111 

Raebum  much  of  the  wai'mth,  the  reality,  the  friendhness  of 
the  man.  He  had  always  liked  Charles  Osmond,  but  he  had 
generally  met  him  either  in  public,  or  when  he  was  harassed 
and  pre-occupied.  Now,  when  he  was  at  leisure,  Avhen,  too, 
he  was  in  great  trouble,  he  instinctively  perceived  that  Osmond 
had  in  a  rare  degree  the  broad-hearted  sympathy  which  he  was 
just  now  in  need  of.  From  that  minute  a  life-long  friendship 
sprang  vip  between  the  two  men. 

'I  came  really  to  see  your  son,'  said  Raebum,  'but  they 
tell  me  he  is  out.  I  wish  to  know  the  whole  truth  about 
Erica.' 

It  was  not  his  way  to  speak  very  much  where  he  felt  deeply, 
but  Charles  Osmond  could  detect  all  the  deep  anxiety,  the  half- 
indulged  hope  which  lay  hidden  behind  the  strong  reserved 
exterior.  He  had  heard  enough  of  the  case  to  be  able  to  satisfy 
him,  to  assure  him  that  there  was  no  danger,  that  all  must  be 
left  to  time  and  patience  and  careful  observance  of  the  doctor's 
regulations.  Raeburn  sighed  with  relief  at  the  repeated  as- 
surance that  there  was  no  danger,  that  recovery  Avas  only  a 
question  of  time.  Death  had  so  recently  visited  his  home 
that  a  grisly  fear  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart.  Once 
free  of  that,  he  could  speak  almost  cheerfully  of  the  lesser 
evil. 

'  It  will  be  a  great  trial  to  her,  such  absolute  imprison- 
ment ;  she  is  never  happy  unless  she  is  hard  at  work.  But 
she  is  brave  and  strong-willed.  Will  you  look  in  and  see  her 
when  you  can  ] ' 

'  Certainly,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  '  We  must  do  our  best 
to  keep  up  her  spirits.' 

'  Yes,  luckily  she  is  a  great  reader,  otherwise  such  a  long 
rest  would  be  intolerable,  I  should  fancy.' 

'  You  do  not  object  to  my  coming  to  see  her  1 '  said  Charles 
Osmond,  looking  full  into  his  companion's  eyes.  '  You  know 
that  we  discuss  religious  questions  pretty  freely.' 

'  Religious  questions  always  are  freely  discussed  in  my 
house,'  said  Raeburn,  '  It  Avill  be  the  greatest  advantage  to 
her  to  have  to  turn  things  well  over  in  lier  mind.  Besides,  we 
always  make  a  point  of  studying  our  adversaries'  case  even 
more  closely  than  our  own,  and,  if  she  has  a  chance  of  doing 
it  personally  as  well  as  through  books,  all  the  better.' 

But  supposing  that  such  an  unlikely  thing  were  to  happen 
as  that  she  should  see  reason  to  change  her  present  views  1 
Su})posing,  if  you  can  suppose  anything  so  unlikely,  she  should 
ever  in  future  years  come  to  believe  in  Christianity  1 '  * 


112  LOSING  ONE  FniEXD  TO  GAIN  ANOTHER. 

Raeburu  smiled,  not  quite  pleasantly. 

*  It  is  as  you  say  such  a  very  remote  contingency  !'  He 
paused,  grew  grave,  tlien  continued  with  all  his  native  nobility  : 
'  Yet  1  like  you  the  better  fur  having  brought  forward  such 
an  idea,  improbable  as  I  hope  it  may  be  considered.  I  feel  very 
sure  of  Erica.  She  has  thought  a  great  deal,  she  has  had 
every  possible  advantage.  "We  never  teach  on  authority  ;  she 
has  been  left  perfectly  free  and  has  learned  to  weigh  evidencea 
and  probabilities,  not  to  be  led  astray  by  any  emotional  fancies, 
but  to  be  guided  by  reason.  She  has  always  heard  both  sides 
of  the  case ;  she  has  lived  as  it  were  in  an  atmosphere  of 
debate,  and  has  been,  and  of  course  always  will  be,  quite  free 
to  form  her  own  opinion  on  every  subject.  It  is  not  for  nothing 
that  we  call  ourselves  Freethinkers.  Absolute  freedom  of 
thought  and  speech  is  i^art  of  our  creed.  So  far  from  objecting 
to  your  holding  free  discussions  with  my  daughter,  I  shall  be 
positively  grateful  to  you,  and  particularly  just  now,  I  fancy 
Erica  has  inherited  enough  of  my  nature  to  enjoy  nothing 
better  than  a  little  opposition,' 

'  I  know  you  are  a  born  fighter,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  *  We 
sympathise  with  each  other  in  that.  And,  next  to  the  bliss 
of  a  hard-won  victory  I  place  the  satisfaction  of  being  well 
conquered.' 

Raeburn  laughed. 

*  I  am  glad  we  think  alike  there.  People  are  very  fond  of 
describing  me  as  a  big  bull-dog,  but  if  they  would  think  a  little 
they  would  see  that  the  love  of  overcoming  obstacles  is  deeply 
rooted  in  the  heart  of  every  true  man.  What  is  the  meaning 
of  our  English  love  of  field  sports  1  What  the  explanation  of 
the  mania  for  Alpine  climbing  !  It  is  no  despicable  craving 
for  distinction,  it  is  the  innate  love  of  fighting,  struggling,  and 
conquering.' 

*  Well,  there  are  many  obstacles  which  we  can  struggle  to 
remove,  side  by  side,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  'We  should  be 
like  one  man,  I  fancy,  on  the  question  of  the  opium  trade,  for 
instance.' 

In  a  few  vigorous  words  Raeburn  denounced  this  monstrous 
national  sin.' 

*  Are  you  going  to  the  meeting  to-night  ■?'  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

'  Yes,  I  had  thought  of  it.  Let  us  go  together.  Shall  you 
speak  ? ' 

*  Not  to-night,'  said  Raeburn,  a  smile  flickering  about  liis 
usuallyistern  lips.     'The  Right  Reverend  Father,  itc,  &c.,  \vl)o 


CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND.  113 

is  to  occupy  the  chair,  might  object  to  announcing  that  "  Mr. 
Raeburn  would  now  address  the  meeting."  No,  this  is  not  the 
time  or  place  for  me.  So  prejudiced  are  people  that  the  mere 
connexion  of  my  name  with  the  question  Avould  probably  do 
more  harm  than  good.  I  should  like,  I  confess,  to  get  up  with- 
out introduction,  to  speak  not  from  the  platform  but  from 
among  the  audience  incognito.  But  that  is  impossible  for  a 
man  who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  five  inches  above  the  average 
height,  and  whose  white  hair  has  become  a  proverb,  since  some 
one  made  the  unfortunate  remark,  repeated  in  a  hundred  news- 
papers, that  the  "  hoary  head  was  only  a  crowai  of  glory  when 
found  in  the  way  of  righteousness.'" 

Charles  Osmond  could  not  help  laughing. 

'  The  worst  of  these  newspaper  da^'s  is  that  one  never  can 
make  an  end  of  anything.  That  remark  has  been  made  to  me 
since  at  several  meetings.  At  the  last,  I  told  the  speaker  that 
I  was  so  tired  of  comments  on  my  personal  appearance  that  I 
should  soon  have  to  resort  either  to  the  dyer  or  the  wig-maker. 
But  here  am  I  wasting  your  time  and  my  own,  and  forgetting 
the  poor  little  maid  at  home.  Good-bye.  I'll  call  in  passing, 
then,  at  a  quarter  to  eight.  Tom  Craigie  will  probably  be  with 
me,  he  is  very  rabid  on  the  subject.' 

'  Craigie  and  I  are  quite  old  friends,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 

And  then,  as  on  the  preceding  night  he  had  stood  at  the 
door  while  Erica  crossed  the  square,  so  now  involuntarily  his 
eyes  followed  Raeburn.  In  his  very  walk  the  character  of 
the  man  was  indicated  : — firm,  steady,  imperturbable,  straight- 
forward. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND. 

Fiat  justitia  mat  coelum. 

Provei'b. 

Justice, — the  miracle  worker  amongst  men, 

John  Buight  (July  14,  1868.) 

*I  THOUGHT  you  were  never  coming  to  see  me,'  said  Erica, 
putting  down  a  newspaper  and  looking  up  with  eager  welcome 
at  Charles  Osmond,  who  had  just  been  announced. 

'  It  has  not  been  for  want  of  will,'  he  replied,  sitting  down 
near  her  couch,  '  but  I  have  been  overwhelmed  with  work  the 
6 


114  CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND. 

last  few  days.  How  are  you  getting  on  ]  I  am  glad  you  don't 
altogether  refuse  to  see  your  prophet  of  evil.' 

'  It  would  have  been  worse  if  you  hadn't  spoken,'  she  said, 
in  the  tone  of  one  trying  hard  to  make  the  best  of  things.  '  I 
was  rather  rash  though  to  say  that  I  should  like  my  wheels  to 
run  down ;  I  didn't  know  how  terrible  it  is  to  be  still.  One 
does  so  grudge  all  the  lost  time.' 

'  But  you  will  not  let  this  be  lost  time — you  will  read.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  happily  I  can  do  that.  And  Mrs.  McNaughton  is 
going  to  give  me  physiology  lessons,  and  dear  old  Professor 
Gosse  has  promised  to  come  and  teach  me  whenever  he  can. 
He  is  so  devoted  to  father,  you  know,  I  think  he  would  do  any- 
thing for  me  just  because  I  am  his  child.  It  is  a  comfort  that 
father  has  so  many  real  good  friends.  What  I  do  so  hate  though 
is  the  thought  of  having  to  be  a  passive  verb  for  so  long. 
You've  no  idea  how  aggravating  it  is  to  lie  here  and  listen  to 
all  that  is  going  on,  to  hear  of  great  meetings  and  not  to  be  able 
to  go,  to  hear  of  work  to  be  done  and  not  to  be  able  to  do  it. 
And  I  suppose  one  notices  little  things  more  when  one  is  ill,  for 
just  to  lie  still  and  watch  our  clumsy  little  servant  lay  tlie  table 
for  dinner,  clattering  down  the  knives  and  forks  and  tossing 
down  the  plates,  makes  me  actually  cross  !  And  then  they  let 
the  room  get  so  untidy  ;  just  look  at  that  stack  of  books  for 
reviewing,  and  that  chaos  of  papers  in  the  corner  !  If  I  could 
but  get  up  for  just  five  minutes,  I  shouldn't  mind.' 

'  Poor  child,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  '  this  comes  very  hard  on 
you.' 

'  I  know  I'm  grumbling  dreadfully,  but  if  you  knew  how 
horrid  it  is  to  be  cut  off  from  everj'thing  !  And,  of  course,  it 
happens  that  another  controvei'sy  is  beginning  about  that 
Longstaff  report.  I  have  been  reading  half-a-dozen  of  to-day's 
newspajiers,  and  each  one  is  worse  tlian  the  last.  Look  hei'c  ! 
Just  read  that,  and  try  to  imagine  that  it's  your  father  they 
are  slandering  !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  get  up  for  one  minute  and 
stamp  !' 

'And  is  this  untrue]'  asked  Charles  Osmond,  when  he  had 
finished  the  account  in  question. 

'There  is  just  enough  truth  in  it  to  make  it  worse  than  a 
direct  lie,'  said  Erica,  hotly.  'They  have  quoted  his  own  words, 
but  in  a  sense  in  which  he  never  meant  them,  or  they  have 
quite  disregarded  the  context.  If  you  will  give  me  those  books 
on  the  table,  I'll  just  show  you  how  they  have  misrepresented 
him  by  hacking  out  single  sentences,  and  twisting  and  distorting 
all  he  sa^s  in  public.' 


CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND.  115 

Charles  Osmond  looked  at  the  passages  referred  to,  and  saw 
that  Erica  had  not  complained  without  reason. 

'Yes,  that  is  very  unfair  — shamefully  unfair,'  he  said. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  abruptly,  '  Erica,  are  you  good 
at  languages  1 ' 

'  I  am  very  fond  of  them,'  she  said,  surprised  at  the  sudden 
turn  he  had  given  to  the  conversation. 

'  Supposing  that  Mr.  Raeburn's  speeches  and  doings  were  a 
good  deal  spoken  of  in  Europe,  as  no  doubt  they  are,  and  that 
a  long  time  after  his  death  one  of  his  successors  made  some 
converts  to  secularism  in  Italy,  and  wrote  in  Italian  all  that  he 
could  remember  of  the  life  and  words  of  his  late  teacher.  Then 
suppose  that  the  Italian  life  of  Raeburn  was  translated  into 
Chinese,  and  that  hundreds  of  years  after,  a  Heathen  Chinee 
sat  down  to  read  it.  His  Oriental  mind  found  it  hard  to  under- 
stand Mr.  Raeburn's  thoroughly  Western  mind ;  he  didn't  see 
anything  noble  in  Mr.  Raeburn's  character,  couldn't  understand 
his  mode  of  thought,  read  through  the  life,  perhaps  studied  it 
after  a  fashion,  or  believed  he  did  ;  then  shut  it  up,  and  said 
there  might  possibly  have  been  such  a  man,  but  the  proofs  were 
very  weak,  and,  even  if  he  had  lived,  he  didn't  think  he  was 
any  great  shakes,  though  the  people  did  malte  such  a  fuss  about 
him.     Would  you  call  that  Heathen  Chinee  fair]' 

Erica  could  not  help  smiling,  though  she  saw  what  he  was 
driving  at. 

But  Charles  Osmond  felt  much  to  keenly  to  continue  in 
such  a  light  strain.  He  was  no  weak-minded,  pleasant  conver- 
sationalist, but  a  prophet,  who  knew  how  to  speak  hard  truths 
sometimes. 

'  Erica,'  he  said,  almost  sternly,  *  you  talk  much  about 
those  who  quote  your  father's  words  unfairly  ;  but  have  you 
never  misquoted  the  words  of  Christ?  Yon  deny  Him  and  dis- 
believe in  Him,  yet  you  have  never  really  studied  His  life.  You 
have  read  the  New  Testament  through  a  veil  of  prejudice. 
Mind,  I  am  not  saying  one  woi'd  in  defence  of  those  so-called 
Christians  who  treat  you  unfairly  or  uncharitably ;  but  I  do 
say  that,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  you  are  quite  as  unfair  to  Christ 
as  they  are  to  your  father.  Of  course,  you  may  reply  that 
Jesus  of  Nazereth  lived  nearly  nineteen  hundred  years  ago, 
and  that  your  father  is  still  living ;  that  you  have  mauy  diffi- 
culties and  doubts  to  combat,  Avhilc  our  bights  can  verify  every 
fact  or  quotation  with  regard  to  Mr.  Raeburn  with  perfect  ease 
and  certainty.  That  is  true  enough.  But  the  difficulties,  if 
honestly  faced,  might  be  surmounted.     You  don't  honestly  face 


1 1  6  CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND. 

them  ;  you  say  to  yourself,  "  I  have  gone  into  all  these  matters 
carefully,  and  now  I  have  finally  made  up  my  mind ;  there  is 
an  end  of  the  matter!"  You  are  naturally  prejudiced  against 
Christ ;  every  day  your  prejudices  will  deepen  unless  you  strike 
out  resolutely  for  yourself  as  a  truth  seeker,  as  one  who  insists 
on  always  considering  uU  sides  of  the  question.  At  present 
you  are  absolutely  unfair,  you  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
study  the  life  of  Christ.' 

Few  people  like  to  be  told  of  their  faults.  Erica  could  just 
endure  it  from  her  father,  but  from  no  one  else.  She  was, 
besides,  too  young  yet  to  have  learnt  even  the  meaning  of  the 
word  humility.  Had  Charles  Osmond  been  a  few  years  younger, 
she  would  not  even  have  listened  to  him.  As  it  was,  he  was  a 
grey-haired  man,  whom  she  loved  and  revered  ;  he  was,  more- 
over, a  guest.  She  was  very  angry  with  him,  but  she  restrained 
her  anger. 

He  had  watched  her  attentively  while  he  spoke.  She  had 
at  first  only  been  sui-prised  ;  then  her  anger  had  been  kindled, 
and  she  gave  him  one  swift  flash  from  eyes  which  looked  like 
live  coals.  Then  she  turned  her  face  away  from  him,  so  that 
he  could  only  see  one  crimson  cheek.  There  was  a  pause  after 
he  had  said  his  say.  Presently,  with  a  great  effort.  Erica  faced 
him  once  more,  and  in  a  manner  which  would  have  been 
dignified  had  it  not  been  a  trifle  too  frigid,  made  some  casual 
remark  upon  a  different  subject.  He  saw  that  to  stay  longer 
was  mere  waste  of  time. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Erica's  anger  blazed 
up  once  more.  That  he  should  have  dared  to  accuse  her  of 
unfairness  !  That  he  should  have  dared  actually  to  rebuke 
her  !  If  he  had  given  her  a  good  shaking,  she  could  not  have 
felt  more  hurt  and  ruffled.  And  then  to  chose  this  day  of  all 
others,  just  when  life  was  so  hard  to  her,  just  when  she  Avas 
condemned  to  a  long  imprisonment.  It  was  simply  brutal  of 
him  !  If  any  one  had  told  her  that  he  would  do  such  a  thing 
she  would  not  have  believed  them.  He  had  said  nothing  of  the 
sort  to  her  before,  though  they  had  known  each  other  so  long ; 
but,  now  that  she  was  ill  and  helpless  and  unable  to  get  away 
fi'om  him,  he  had  seen  fit  to  come  and  lecture  her.  Well,  he 
was  a  parson  !  she  might  have  known  that  sooner  or  later  the 
horrid,  tyrannical,  priestly  side  of  him  would  show  !  And  yet 
she  had  liked  him  so  much,  trusted  him  so  much  !  It  was 
indescribably  bitter  to  think  that  he  was  no  longer  the  hero  she 
had  thought  him  to  be.  That,  after  all,  he  was  not  a  grand, 
noble,  self-denying  man,  but  a  fault-finding  priest ' 


CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND.  117 

She  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  alternate  wrath  and 
grief.  In  the  evening  Aunt  Jean  read  her  a  somewhat  dry 
book  wliich  required  all  her  attention,  and,  consequently,  her 
anger  cooled  for  want  of  thoughts  to  stimulate  it.  Her  father 
did  not  come  in  till  late  ;  but,  as  he  carried  her  upstairs  to 
bed,  she  told  him  of  Charles  Osmond's  interview. 

'  I  told  him  3^ou  liked  a  little  opposition,'  was  his  reply. 

*  1  don't  know  about  opposition,  but  I  didn't  like  him,  he 
showed  his  priestly  side.' 

'  I  am  sorry,'  replied  Raeburn.  '  For  my  part  I  geniiinely 
like  the  man ;  he  seems  to  me  a  grand  fellow,  and  I  should 
have  said  not  in  the  least  spoilt  by  his  Christianity,  for  he  is 
neither  exclusive,  nor  narrow-minded,  nor  opposed  to  progress. 
Infatuated  on  one  point,  of  course,  but  a  thorough  man  in  spite 
of  it.' 

Left  once  more  alone  in  her  little  attic-room.  Erica  began 
to  think  over  things  more  quietly.  So  her  father  had  told  him 
that  she  liked  opposition,  and  he  had  doled  out  to  her  a  i-ebuke 
which  Avas  absolutely  unanswerable  !  But  why  unanswerable  1 
She  had  been  too  angry  to  reply  at  the  time.  It  was  one  of 
the  few  maxims  her  father  had  given  her,  'When  you  are 
angry  be  very  slow  to  speak.'  But  she  might  write  an  answer, 
a  nice,  cold,  cutting  answer,  respectful,  of  course,  but  very 
frigid.  She  would  clearly  demonstrate  to  him  that  she  was 
perfectly  fair,  and  that  he,  her  accuser,  was  unfair. 

And  then,  quite  quietly,  she  began  to  turn  over  the 
accusations  in  her  mind.  Quoting  the  words  of  Christ  without 
regard  to  the  context,  twisting  their  meaning.  Neglecting  real 
study  of  Christ's  character  and  life.  Seeing  all  through  a  veil 
of  prejudice. 

She  would  begin  like  her  father  with  a  definition  of  terms. 
What  did  he  mean  by  study  ]  What  did  she  mean  by  study  ] 
Well,  such  searching  analysis,  for  instance,  as  she  had  applied 
to  the  character  of  Hamlet,  when  she  had  had  to  get  up  one 
of  Shakespere's  plays  for  her  examination.  She  had  worked 
very  hard  at  that,  had  really  taken  every  one  of  his  speeches 
and  soliloquies,  and  had  ti-ied  to  gather  his  true  character  from 
them  as  well  as  from  his  actions. 

At  this  point  she  wandered  away  from  the  subject  a  little, 
and  began  to  wonder  when  she  should  hear  the  result  of  the 
examination,  and  to  hope  that  she  might  get  a  first.  By-and- 
by  she  came  to  herself  with  a  sudden  and  very  luicomfortable 
shock.  If  the  sort  of  work  she  had  given  to  Hamlet  was  study, 
had  she  ever  studied  the  character  of  Christ  % 


118  CHABLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  ms  HIND. 

She  had  all  her  life  heard  what  her  father  had  to  say 
against  Him,  and  what  a  good  many  Avell-meaning,  hut  not 
very  convincing,  people  had  to  say  for  Him.  She  had  hcai'd  a 
few  sermons  and  several  lectures  on  various  subjects  connected 
with  Christ's  religion.  She  had  read  many  books  both  for  and 
against  Him.  She  had  read  the  New  Testament.  But  could 
she  quite  honestly  say  that  she  had  sUidied  the  character  of 
Christ  ]  Had  she  not  been  predisposed  to  think  her  father  in 
the  right  1  He  would  not  at  all  approve  of  that.  Had  she 
been  a  true  Freethinker  %  Had  she  not  taken  a  good  deal  to 
be  truth  because  he  said  it?  If  so,  she  was  not  a  l)it  more  fair 
than  the  majority  of  Christians  wlio  never  took  the  trouble  to 
go  into  things  for  themselves,  and  study  things  from  the  point 
of  view  of  an  outsider. 

In  the  silence  and  darkness  of  her  little  room,  she  began  to 
suspect  a  good  many  unpleasant  and  hitherto  unknown  facts 
about  herself 

'  After  all,  I  do  believe  that  ]\Ii\  Osmond  was  right/  she 
confessed  at  length.  '  I  am  glad  to  get  back  my  belief  in  him  ; 
but  I've  come  to  a  horrid  bit  of  lath  and  plaster  in  myself 
where  I  thought  it  was  all  good  stone.' 

She  fell  asleep  and  dreamt  of  the  Heathen  Chinee  reading 
the  translation  of  the  translation  of  her  father's  words,  and 
disbelieving  altogether  in  '  that  invented  demagogue,  Luke 
Raebum.' 

The  next  day,  Charles  Osmond,  sitting  at  work  in  his  study, 
and  feeling  more  depressed  and  hopeless  than  he  would  have 
cared  to  own  even  to  himself,  was  roused  by  the  aii'ival  of  a 
little  three-cornered  note.     It  ran  as  follows  : — 

'  Dear  Mr.  Osmond, 

'  You  made  me  feel  very  angry  yesterday,  and  sad, 
too,  for  of  course  it  was  a  case  of  "  Et  tu,  Brute."  But  last 
night  I  came  to  the  unpleasant  conclusion  that  you  were  quite 
right,  and  that  I  was  quite  wrong.  To  prove  to  you  that  I  am 
no  longer  angry,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  great  favour.  Will 
you  teach  me  Greek  1  Your  parable  of  the  Heathen  Chinee 
has  set  me  thinking. 

'  Yours  very  sincerely, 

*  ElUCA  PiAEBURX.' 

Charles  Osmond  felt  the  tears  come  to  his  eyes.  The 
straightforward  simplicity  of  the  letter,  the  candid  avowal  of 
having  been  '  quite  wrong,'  an  avowal  not  easy  for  one  of 
Erica's  character  to  make,  touched  him  inexpressibly.     Taking 


CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND.  119 

a  Creek  grammar  from  his  bookshelves,  he  set  off  at  once  fur 
Guilford  Terrace. 

He  found  Erica  looking  A'ery  white  and  fragile,  and  with 
lines  of  suffering  about  her  mouth ;  but,  though  physically 
weary,  her  mind  seemed  as  vigorous  as  ever.  She  received  him. 
with  her  usual  frankness,  and  with  more  animation  in  her  look 
than  he  had  seen  for  some  weeks. 

'  I  did  think  you  perfectly  horrid  yestei'day  ! '  she  exclaimed, 
'  And  was  miserable,  besides,  at  the  prospect  of  losing  one  of 
my  heroes.     You  can  be  very  severe.' 

'  The  infliction  of  pain  is  only  justified  when  the  inflictor  is 
certain,  or  as  nearly  certain  as  he  can  be,  that  the  pahi  will  be 
productive  of  good,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 

'  I  suppose  that  is  the  way  you  account  for  the  origin  of 
evil,'  said  Erica,  thoughtfully. 

'  Yes,'  replied  Charles  Osmond,  pleased  that  she  should  have 
thought  of  the  subject,  '  that  to  me  seems  the  only  possible 
explanation,  otherwise  God  would  be  either  not  perfectly  good 
or  not  omnipotent.  His  all-wisdom  enables  Him  to  over-rule 
that  pain  which  He  has  Avilled  to  be  the  necessary  outcome  of 
infractions  of  His  order.  Pain,  you  see,  is  made  into  a  means 
of  helping  us  to  find  out  where  that  order  has  been  broken, 
and  so  teaching  us  to  obey  it  in  the  long  run.' 

'  But  if  there  is  an  all-powerful  God,  wouldn't  it  have  been 
much  better  if  He  had  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  go  wrong  ? ' 

'  It  would  have  saved  much  trouble,  undoubtedly ;  but  do 
you  think  that  which  costs  us  least  trouble  is  generally  the 
most  worth  having  ]  I  know  a  noble  fellow  who  has  fought 
his  way  upward  through  sins  and  temptations — you  would  like 
him,  by  the  way,  for  he  was  once  an  atheist.  He  is,  by  virtue 
of  all  he  has  passed  through,  all  he  has  overcome,  one  of  the 
finest  men  I  have  ever  known.' 

'  That  is  the  friend,  I  suppose,  whom  your  son  mentioned 
to  me.  But  I  don't  see  your  argument,  for  if  there  was  an 
all-powerful  God  He  could  have  caused  the  man  you  speak  of 
to  be  as  noble  and  good  without  passing  through  pain  and 
temptation.' 

'  But  God  does  not  work  arbitrarily,  but  by  laws  of  pro- 
gression. Nor  does  his  omnipotence  include  the  working  of 
contradictions.  He  cannot  both  cause  a  thing  to  be  and  not 
to  be  at  the  same  time.  If  it  is  a  law  that  that  which  has 
grown  by  struggle  and  effort  shall  be  most  noble,  God  will  not 
arbitrarily  reverse  that  law  or  truth  because  the  creation  of  sin- 
less beings  would  involve  less  trouble.' 


1  20  CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND. 

'  It  all  seems  to  me  so  unreal ! '  exclaimed  Erica.  'Itseema 
like  talking  of  thin  air  ! ' 

'  I  expect  it  does,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  trying  to  realise  to 
himself  her  position. 

There  was  a  silence. 

'  How  did  this  man  of  whom  you  speak  come  to  desert  our 
side  ? '  asked  Erica.  '  I  suppose,  as  you  say  he  was  one  of  the 
finest  men  you  ever  kncAV,  he  must,  at  least,  have  had  a  great 
intellect.  How  did  he  begin  to  think  all  these  unlikely,  \mreal 
things  true  V 

'  Donovan  began  by  seeing  the  granduer  of  the  character  of 
Christ.  He  followed  his  example  for  many  years,  calling  him- 
self all  the  time  an  atheist ;  at  last  he  realised  that  in  Christ 
we  see  the  Father.' 

'  I  am  sorry  we  lost  him  if  he  is  such  a  nice  man,'  was 
Erica's  sole  comment.  Then  turning  her  beautiful  eyes  on 
Charles  Osmond,  she  said,  '  I  hope  my  note  did  not  convey  to 
you  more  then  I  intended.  I  asked  you  if  you  would  teach  me 
Greek,  and  I  mean  to  try  to  study  the  character  of  Christ ; 
but,  quite  to  speak  the  truth,  I  don't  really  Avant  to  do  it. 
I  only  do  it  because  I  see  I  have  not  been  fair.' 

'Yovi  do  it  for  the  sake  of  being  a  truth-seeker,  the 
best  possible  reason.' 

'  I  thought  you  would  think  I  was  going  to  do  it  because  I 
hoped  to  get  something.  I  thought  one  of  your  sti'ong  points 
Avas  that  people  must  come  in  a  state  of  need  and  expecting  to 
be  satisfied.  I  don't  expect  anything.  I  am  only  doing  it  for 
the  sake  of  honesty  and  thoroughness.  I  don't  expect  any  good 
at  all.' 

'  Is  it  likely  that  you  can  expect  when  you  know  so  little 
what  is  there  1  What  can  you  bring  better  than  an  honest 
mind  to  the  search.  Erica,  if  I  hadn't  known  that  you  were 
absolutely  sincere,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  give  you  the 
pain  I  gave  you  yesterday.  It  was  my  trust  in  your  perfect 
sincerity  which  brought  you  that  strong  accusation.  Even 
then  it  was  a  sore  piece  of  work.' 

'  Did  you  mind  it  a  little  1 '  exclaimed  Erica.  Biit  directly 
she  had  spoken,  she  felt  that  the  question  was  absurd,  for  she 
saw  a  look  in  Chax'les  Osmond's  eyes  that  made  the  word  'little' 
a  mockery. 

'  What  makes  that  man  so  loving  ? '  she  thought  to  herself. 
'  He  reminded  me  almost  of  father,  yet  I  am  no  child  of  his.  I 
am  opposed  to  all  that  he  teaclies.  I  have  spoken  my  mind  out 
to  him  in  a  way  wliich  must  sometimes  have  pained  him.     Yet 


CHARLES  OSMOND  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  121 

he  cares  fo'.  me  so  much  that  it  pained  him  exceedingly  to  give 
me  pain  yesterday  ! ' 

His  character  puzzled  her.  The  loving  breath,  the  stern 
condemnation  of  whatever  was  not  absolutely  true,  the  dis- 
regard of  what  the  world  said,  the  hatred  of  shams,  and  most 
puzzling  •)£  all,  the  often  apparent  struggle  with  himself,  the 
unceasing  effort  to  conquer  his  chief  fault.  Yet  this  noble, 
honest,  intellectual  man  was  labouring  under  a  great  delusion, 
a  delusion  which  somehow  gave  him  an  extraordinary  power  of 
loving !  Ah  no  !  it  could  not  be  his  Christianity,  though, 
which  made  him  loving,  for  where  not  most  Christians  hard  and 
bitter  and  narrow-minded  ] 

'  I  wish,'  she  said,  abruptly,  'you  would  tell  me  what  makes 
you  willing  to  be  friends  with  us.  I  know  well  enough  that  the 
Church  Chronicle  has  been  punishing  you  for  your  defence  of 
my  father,  and  that  there  must  be  a  thousand  disagreeables  to 
encounter  in  your  own  set  just  because  you  visit  us.  Why  do 
you  come  ] ' 

'  Because  I  care  for  you  very  much.' 

'  But  you  care,  too,  perhaps,  for  other  people  who  will 
probably  cut  you  for  flying  in  the  face  of  society  and  visiting 
social  outcasts.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  can  explain  it  to  you  yet,'  he  replied. 
*  You  would  only  tell  me,  as  you  told  me  once  before,  that  I 
was  talking  riddles  to  you.  When  you  have  read  your  Greek 
Testament  and  really  studied  the  life  of  Christ,  I  think  you 
will  understand.  In  the  meantime,  St.  Paul,  I  think,  answers 
your  question  better  than  I  could,  but  you  wouldn't  understand 
even  his  words,  I  fancy.  There  they  are  in  the  Greek,' — he 
opened  a  Testament  and  showed  her  a  passage.  '  I  believe  you 
woxdd  think  the  English  almost  as  great  gibberish  as  this  looks  to 
you  in  its  vmknown  characters.' 

'  Do  you  advise  every  one  to  learn  Greek  1 ' 

*  No  :  many  have  neither  time  nor  ability,  and  those  who 
are  not  apt  at  languages  would  spend  their  time  more  usefully 
over  good  translations  I  think.  But  you  have  time  and  brains, 
so  I  am  very  glad  to  teach  you.' 

'  1  am  afraid  I  wovdd  much  rather  it  Avere  for  any  other 
j.ui'pose  ! '  said  Erica.  '  I  am  somehow  weary  of  the  very 
name  of  Christianity.  I  have  heard  wrangling  over  the  Bible 
till  I  am  tired  to  death  of  it,  and  discussions  about  the  Atone- 
ment, and  tlie  Incarnation,  and  the  Resurrection,  till  the  very 
words  are  hateful  to  me.  I  am  afraid  I  shock  you,  but  just 
put  yourself  in  my  place  and  imagine  how  you  would  feel.     It 


122  AN  INTERVAL. 

is  not  even  as  if  I  had  to  debate  tlie  various  questions ;  I  have 
merely  to  sit  and  listen  to  a  never  ending  dispute.' 

'  You  sadden  me ;  but  it  is  quite  natural  that  you  should 
be  weary  of  such  debates.  I  want  you  to  realise,  though,  that 
in  the  stormy  atmosphere  of  your  Other's  lecture-hall,  in  the 
din  and  strife  of  controversy,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should 
gain  any  true  idea  of  Christ's  real  character.  Put  aside  all 
thought  of  the  dogmas  you  have  been  wearied  with,  and  study 
the  life  of  the  Man.' 

Then  the  lesson  began.  It  pi'oved  a  treat  to  both  teacher  and 
pupil.     When  Charles  Osmond  had  left.  Erica  still  worked  on. 

'  I  should  like,  at  any  rate  to  spell  out  his  riddle,'  she 
thought  to  herself,  turning  back  to  the  passage  he  had  shown 
her.  And  letter  by  letter,  and  word  by  Avord,  she  made  out 
*  For  the  love  of  Christ ' 

The  vei'b  baffled  her,  however,  and  she  lay  on  the  sofa 
chafing  at  her  helplessness  till,  at  length  Tom  happened  to 
come  in,  and  brought  her  the  English  Testament  she  needed. 
Ah  !  there  it  was  !  '  For  the  love  of  Christ  coustraineth  lis.' 

Was  that  what  had  made  him  come  1  Why,  that  was  the 
alleged  reason  for  half  the  persecutions  they  met  with  !  Did 
the  love  of  Christ  constrain  Charles  Osmond  to  be  their  friend, 

and  at  the  same  time  constrain  the  clergy  of  X not  many 

years  before  to  incite  the  people  to  stone  her  father,  and  offer 
him  every  sort  of  insult?  Was  it  possible  that  the  love  of 
Christ  constrained  Mr.  Osmond  to  endure  contempt  and  censure 
on  their  behalf,  and  constrained  Mr.  Randolph  to  hire  a  band 
of  roughs  to  interrupt  her  father's  speeches  ] 

'  He  is  a  grand  exception  to  the  general  rule,'  she  said  to 
herself.  '  If  there  were  many  Christians  like  him,  I  should 
begin  to  think  there  must  be  something  more  in  Christianity 
than  we  thought.  Well,  if  only  to  please  him  I  must  try  to 
study  the  New  Testament  over  again,  and  as  thoroughly  as  I 
can.  No,  not  to  please  him,  though,  but  for  the  sake  of  being 
quite  honest.  I  would  much  rather  be  working  at  that  new 
book  of  Tyndall's  ! ' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AN  INTERVAL. 

How  can  man  love  but  wliat  he  yearns  to  help  ? 

E.  Browning. 

DuniN'G  the  year  of  Erica's  illness,  Brian  began  to  realise  his 
true  position  towards  her  better  than  he  nad  hitherto  done. 
He  saw  quite   well  that  any  intrusion  of  his  love,  even  any 


AN  INTERVAL.  123 

slight  manifestation  of  it,  might  do  vmtold  harm.  She  was  not 
ready  for  it  yet — why,  he  could  not  have  told. 

The  truth  was,  that  his  Undine,  although  in  many  respects 
a  high-souled  woman,  was  still  in  some  respects  a  child.  She 
would  have  been  merely  embarrassed  by  his  love  ;  she  did  not 
want  it.  She  liked  him  very  much  as  an  acquaintance  ;  he  was 
to  her  Tom's  friend,  or  her  doctor,  or  perhaps  Mr.  Osmond's 
son.  In  this  way  she  liked  him,  was  even  fond  of  him,  but  as 
a  lover  he  would  have  been  a  perplexing  embarrassment. 

He  knew  well  enoiagh  that  her  frank  liking  boded  ill  for  his 
future  success ;  but,  in  spite  of  that  he  could  not  help  being 
glad  to  obtain  any  footing  with  her.  It  was  something  even  to 
be  'Tom's  friend  Brian.'  He  delighted  in  hearing  his  name 
from  her  lips,  although  knowing  that  it  was  no  good  auguiy. 
He  lived  on  from  day  to  day,  thinking  very  little  of  the  doubt- 
ful future  as  long  as  he  could  serve  her  in  the  present.  A 
reserved  and  silent  man,  devoted  to  his  profession,  and  to 
practical  science  of  every  kind,  few  people  guessed  that  hf 
could  have  any  particular  story  of  his  own.  He  was  not  at  all 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  be  expected  to  fall  hopelessly  in  love 
at  first  sight,  nor  would  any  one  have  selected  him  as  a  good 
modem  specimen  of  the  chivalrous  knight  of  olden  times ;  he 
was  so  completely  a  nineteenth  century  man,  so  progressive,  so 
scientific.  But,  though  his  devotion  was  of  the  silent  order,  it 
was,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  all  the  truer.  There  was  about 
him  a  sort  of  divine  patience.  As  long  as  he  could  serve  Eric:i, 
he  was  content  to  wait  any  number  of  years  in  the  hope  of 
winning  her  love.  He  accepted  his  position  readily.  He  knew 
that  she  had  not  the  slightest  love  for  him.  He  was  quite 
secondary  to  his  father,  even,  who  was  one  of  Erica's  heroes. 
He  liked  to  make  her  talk  of  him  ;  her  enthvisiastic  liking  was 
delightful — perhaps  all  the  more  so  because  she  was  far  from 
agreeing  with  her  prophet.  Brian,  with  the  wonderful  self- 
forgetfulness  of  true  love,  liked  to  hear  the  praises  of  all  those 
whom  she  admired  ;  he  liked  to  realise  what  were  her  ideals, 
even  when  conscious  how  far  he  fell  short  of  them. 

For  it  was  unfortunately  true  that  his  was  not  the  type  of 
character  she  was  most  likely  to  admire.  As  a  friend  she  might 
like  him  much,  but  he  covild  hardly  be  her  hero.  His  wonder- 
ful patience  was  quite  lost  upon  her;  she  hardly  counted  patience 
as  a  virtue  at  all.  His  grand  humility  merely  perplexed  her  ; 
it  was  at  present  far  beyond  her  comprehension.  While  his 
willingness  to  serve  every  one,  even  in  the  most  trifling  and  petty 
concerns  of  daily  life,  she  often  attributed  to  mere  good  nature. 
Grand  acts  of  self-sacrifice  she  admired  enthusiastically,  but  the 


124  AN  INTERVAL. 

more  really  difficult  round  of  small  denials  and  trifling  servicea 
she  did  not  in  the  least  appreciate.  Absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation, as  it  were,  of  the  Hamlets  in  life,  she  had  no  leisure  to 
spare  for  the  Horatios. 

She  proved  a  capital  patient ;  her  whole  mind  was  set  on 
getting  well,  and  her  steady  common  sense  and  obedience  to 
rules  made  her  a  great  favourite  with  her  elder  doctor.  Really 
healthy,  and  only  invalided  by  the  hard  work  and  trouble  she 
had  undergone,  seven  or  eight  months'  rest  did  wonders  for  her. 
In  tlie  enforced  quiet,  too,  she  found  plenty  of  time  for  study. 
Charles  Osmond  had  never  had  a  better  pupil.  They  learnt  to 
know  each  other  very  Avell  during  those  lessons,  and  many  were 
the  perplexing  questions  which  Erica  started.  But  they  were 
not  as  before  a  mere  repetition  of  the  difficulties  she  had  been 
primed  with  at  her  father's  lecture-hall,  nor  did  she  bring  them 
forward  with  the  triumphant  conviction  that  they  were  un- 
answerable. They  were  real,  honest  questions,  desiring  and 
seeking  everywhere  for  the  true  answer  which  might  be  some- 
where. 

The  result  of  her  study  of  the  life  of  Christ  was  at  first  to 
make  her  a  much  better  secularist.  She  found  to  her  surprise 
that  there  was  much  in  His  teaching  that  entirely  harmonised 
with  secularism  ;  that,  in  fact.  He  spoke  a  great  deal  about  the 
improvement  of  this  world,  and  scarcely  at  all  about  that  place 
in  the  clouds  of  which  Christians  made  so  much.  By  the  end 
of  a  year  she  had  also  reached  the  conviction  that,  whatever 
interpolations  there  might  be  in  the  gospels,  no  untrue  writer, 
no  admiring  but  dishonest  narrator  could  have  conceived  such 
a  character  as  that  of  Christ.  For  she  had  dug  down  to  the 
very  root  of  the  matter.  She  had  left  for  the  present  tlie,  to 
her,  perplexing  and  almost  irritating  catalogue  of  miracles,  and 
had  begun  to  perceive  the  strength  and  indomitable  courage, 
the  grand  self-devotion,  the  all-embracing  love  of  the  Man. 
Very  superficial  had  been  her  former  view.  He  had  been  to 
her  a  shadowy,  unreal  being,  soft  and  gentle,  even  a  little 
efleminate,  speaking  sometimes  what  seemed  to  her  narrow 
words  about  only  saving  the  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel. 
A  character  somehow  wanting  in  that  Power  and  Intellect 
which  she  worshipped. 

But  on  a  really  deep  study  she  saw  how  greatly  she  had 
been  mistaken.  Extraordinarily  mistaken,  both  as  to  the 
character  and  the  teaching.  Christ  was  without  doubt  a  grand 
ideal!  To  be  as  broad-hearted  as  he  was,  as  universally  loving 
— it  would  be  no  bad  aim.     And,  as  in  daily  life  Erica  realised 


AN  INTERVAL.  125 

how  hard  was  the  practice  of  that  love,  she  realised  at  the 
same  time  the  loftiness  of  the  ideal,  and  the  weakness  of  her 
own  powers. 

'  13nt,  thongh  I  do  begin  to  see  why  you  take  this  man  as 
your  ideal,'  she  said,  one  day,  to  Charles  Osmond,  '  I  cannot,  of 
course,  accept  a  great  deal  that  He  is  said  to  have  taught. 
When  he  speaks  of  love  to  men,  that  is  understandable,  one 
can  try  to  obey ;  but  Avhen  he  speaks  about  God,  then,  of 
Course,  I  can  only  think  that  He  was  deluded.  You  may 
admire  Joan  of  Arc,  and  see  the  great  beauty  of  her  character, 
yet  at  the  same  time  believe  that  she  was  acting  under  a 
delusion ;  you  may  admii'e  the  character  of  Gotama  without 
considering  Buddhism  the  true  religion ;  and  so  with  Christ, 
I  may  reverence  and  admire  His  character,  while  believing 
Him  to  have  been  mistaken.' 

Charles  Osmond  smiled.  He  knew  from  many  trifling  signs, 
unnoticed  by  others,  that  Erica  would  have  given  a  great  deal 
to  see  her  way  to  an  honest  acceptance  of  that  teaching  of 
Christ  which  spoke  of  an  unseen  but  everywhere  present  Father 
of  all,  of  the  everlastingness  of  love,  of  a  reunion  with  those 
who  are  dead.  She  hardly  allowed  to  herself  that  she  longed 
to  believe  it,  she  dreaded  the  least  concession  to  that  natural 
craving,  she  distrusted  her  own  truthfulness,  feared  above  all 
things  that  she  might  be  deluded,  might  imagine  that  to  be  true 
which  was  in  reality  false. 

And,  happily,  her  pi'ophet  was  too  wise  to  attempt  in  any 
way  to  quicken  the  work  which  was  going  on  within  her ;  he 
was  one  of  those  rare  men  who  can  be,  even  in  such  a  case, 
content  to  wait.  He  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  digging  up 
a  seed  to  see  whether  he  could  not  quicken  its  slow  develop- 
ment of  root  and  stem,  as  of  interfering  in  any  Avay  with  Erica. 
He  came  and  went,  taught  her  Greek,  and  always,  day  after 
day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  however  much 
pressed  by  his  parish  work,  however  hai-assed  by  private 
troubles,  he  came  to  her  with  the  genial  sympathy,  the  broad- 
hearted  readiness  to  hear  calmly  all  sides  of  the  question,  which 
hud  struck  her  so  much  the  very  first  time  she  had  met  him. 

The  other  members  of  the  family  liked  him  almost  as  well, 
although  they  did  not  know  him  so  intimately  as  Erica.  Aunt 
Jean,  who  had  at  first  been  a  little  prejudiced  against  him, 
endsd  by  singing  his  praises  more  loudly  than  any  one,  perhaps 
conquered  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  man's  extraordinary  power 
of  sympathy,  his  ready  perception  of  good  even  in  those  with 
whom  he  disagreed  most. 


126  AN  INTERVAL. 

Airs.  Craigic  was  in  many  respects  very  like  her  brother, 
and  was  a  very  useful  worker,  though  much  of  her  work  was 
little  seen.  She  did  not  speak  in  public ;  all  the  oratorical 
powers  of  tlie  family  seemed  to  have  concenti'ated  themselves 
in  Luke  Raeburn  ;  but  she  wrote  and  worked  indefatigably, 
proving  a  very  useful  second  to  her  brother.  A  hard,  wearing 
life,  however,  had  told  a  good  deal  upon  her,  and  trouble  had 
somewhat  embittered  her  nature.  She  had  not  the  vein  of 
humour  which  had  stood  Raeburn  in  such  good  stead.  Severely 
matt cr-of  fact,  and  almost  despising  those  who  had  any  poetry 
in  their  nature,  she  did  not  always  agree  very  well  with  Erica. 
The  two  loved  each  other  sincerely,  and  were  far  too  loyal  both 
to  clan  and  creed  to  allow  their  differences  really  to  separate 
them  ;  but  there  was,  undoubtedly,  something  in  their  natures 
which  jarred.  Even  Tom  found  it  hard  at  times  to  bear  the 
strong  infusion  of  bitter  criticism  which  his  mother  introduced 
into  tlie  home  atmosphere.  He  was  something  of  a  philosoj)her, 
however,  and  knowing  that  she  had  been  through  great  trouble, 
and  had  had  much  to  try  her,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was 
natural — therefore  inevitable — therefore  to  be  bonie. 

The  home  life  was  not  without  its  frets  and  petty  trials,  but 
on  one  point  there  was  perfect  accord.  All  were  devoted  to  the 
head  of  the  house — would  have  sacrificed  anything  to  bring  him 
a  few  minutes'  peace. 

As  for  Raeburn,  when  not  occupied  in  actual  conflict,  he 
lived  in  a  sort  of  serene  atmosphere  of  thought  and  study,  far 
removed  from  all  the  small  differences  and  little  cares  of  his 
household.  They  invariably  smoothed  down  all  such  rough- 
nesses in  his  presence,  and  probably  in  any  case  he  would  have 
been  unable  to  see  such  microscopic  grievances ;  unless,  indeed, 
they  left  any  shade  of  annoyance  on  Erica's  fiice,  and  then  his 
fatherhood  detected  at  once  what  was  wrong. 

It  would  be  tedious,  however,  to  follow  the  course  of  Erica's 
life  for  the  next  three  years,  for,  though  the  time  was  that  of 
her  chief  mental  growth,  her  days  were  of  the  quietest.  Not 
till  she  was  two-and-twcnty  did  she  fully  recover  from  the 
effects  of  her  sudden  sorrow  and  the  subsequent  overwork.  In 
the  meantime,  her  father's  influence  steadily  deepened  and 
spread  throughout  the  country,  and  troubles  multiplied. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HYDE  PARK. 

Who  spouts  his  message  to  the  wilderness, 
Lightens  his  soul  and  feels  one  burden  less ; 
But  to  the  people  preach,  and  you  will  find 
They'll  pay  you  back  with  thanks  ill  to  your  mind. 

Goethe.     Translated  by  J,  S.  B. 

Hyde  Park  is  a  truly  national  property,  and  it  is  anxusing  and 
perhaps  edifying  to  note  the  various  uses  to  which  it  is  often 
put.  In  the  morning  it  is  the  rendezvous  of  nurses  and  child- 
ren ;  in  the  aftei'noon  of  a  fashionable  throng ;  on  Sunday 
evenings  it  is  the  resort  of  hard-working  men  and  women,  who 
have  to  content  themselves  with  getting  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  once  a  week.  But,  above  all,  the  park  is  the  meeting- 
place  of  the  people,  the  place  for  mass  meetings  and  monster 
demonstrations. 

On  a  bright  day  in  June,  when  the  trees  were  still  in  their 
freshest  green,  the  crowd  of  wealth  and  fashion  had  beaten  an 
ignominious  retreat  before  a  gi'eat  political  demonstration  to  be 
held  that  afternoon. 

Every  one  knew  that  the  meeting  would  be  a  very  stormy 
one,  for  it  related  to  the  most  burning  question  of  the  day,  a 
question  which  was  hourly  growing  more  and  more  momentous, 
and  which  for  the  time  had  divided  England  into  two  bitterly 
opposed  factions. 

These  years  which  Erica  had  passed  so  quietly  had  been 
eventful  years  for  the  country,  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
years  of  reckless  expenditure,  years  which  deluded  some  and 
enraged  others,  provoking  most  bitter  animosity  between  the 
opposing  parties.  The  question  was  not  a  class  question,  and  a 
certain  number  of  the  working  classes  and  a  large  number  of 
the  London  roughs  warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  that  party 
which  appealed  to  their  love  of  power  and  to  a  selfish 
patriotism.  The  Hyde  Pai'k  meeting  would  inevitably  be  a 
turbulent  one.  Those  who  wished  to  run  no  risk  remained  at 
home  ;  Eotten  Row  was  deserted ;  the  carriage  road  almost 
empty  ;  while  from  the  gateways  there  poured  in  a  never-ending 
stream  of  people — some  serious-looking,  some  eager  and  excited, 
some  with  a  dangerously  vindictive  look,  some  merely  curious. 
Every  now  and  then  the  more  motley  and  disorderly  crowd  was 
reinforced  by  a  club  with  its  brass  band  and  banners,  and 
gradually  the  mass  of  human  beings  grew  from  hundreds  to  a 


128  HYDE  PARK, 

thousand,  from  one  thousand  to  many  thousands,  until,  indeed, 
it  became  almost  impossible  to  form  any  idea  of  the  actual 
numbers,  so  enormous  was  the  gathering. 

'  We  shall  have  a  bad  time  of  it  to-day,'  remarked  Raeburn 
to  Brian,  as  they  forced  their  way  on.  '  If  I'm  not  very  much 
mistaken,  too,  we  are  vastly  outnumbered.' 

He  looked  round  the  huge  assembly  from  his  vantage 
ground  of  six  foot  four,  his  cool  intrepidity  not  one  whit  shaken 
by  the  knowledge  that,  by  what  he  was  about  to  say,  he  should 
draw  down  on  his  own  head  all  the  wrath  of  the  roughest 
portion  of  the  crowd. 

'  'Twill  be  against  fearful  odds  ! '  said  Tom,  elbowing  vigor- 
ously to  keep  up  with  his  companion. 

*  We  fear  naa  foe  ! '  said  Raeburn,  quoting  his  favourite 
motto.  '  And,  after  all,  it  were  no  bad  end  to  die  protesting 
against  wicked  rapacity,  needless  bloodshed.' 

His  eye  kindled  as  he  thought  of  the  protest  he  hoped  to 
make ;  his  heart  beat  high  as  he  looked  round  upon  the  throng 
so  largely  composed  of  those  hostile  to  himself.  Was  there  not 
a  demand  for  his  superabundant  energy  ]  a  demand  for  the 
tremendous  powers  of  endurance,  of  influence,  of  devotion 
which  were  stored  up  within  him  ]  As  an  athlete  joys  in  trying 
a  dfficult  feat,  as  an  artist  joys  in  atternpting  a  lofty  subject  so, 
Kaeburu  in  his  consciousness  of  power,  in  his  absolute  con- 
viction of  truth,  joyed  in  the  prospect  of  a  most  dangerous 
conflict. 

Brian,  watching  him  presently  from  a  little  distance,  could  not 
wonder  at  the  immense  influence  he  had  gained  in  the  country. 
The  mere  physique  of  the  man  was  wonderfully  impressive — 
the  strong,  rugged  Scottish  face,  the  latent  power  conveyed  in 
his  whole  bearing.  He  was  no  demagogue,  he  never  flattered 
tlie  people  ;  he  preached  indeed  a  somewhat  severe  creed,  but, 
even  in  his  sternest  mood,  the  hold  he  got  over  the  people, 
the  powpr  he  had  of  raising  the  most  degraded  to  a  higher 
level,  was  marvellous.  It  was  not  likely,  however,  that  his 
protest  of  to-day  would  lead  to  anything  but  a  free  fight.  If 
he  could  make  himself  effectually  heard,  he  cared  very  little 
for  what  followed.  It  was  necessary  that  a  protest  should  be 
made,  and  he  was  the  right  man  to  make  it ;  therefore  come  ill 
or  well,  he  would  go  through  with  it,  and,  if  he  escaped  with  his 
life — so  much  the  better  ! 

The  meeting  began.  A  moderate  speaker  was  heard  with- 
out interruption,  but,  the  instant  Raeburn  stood  up,  a  chorus 
of  yells  arose.     For  several  minutes  he  made  no  attempt  to 


HYDE  PARK.  129 

siDeak  ;  but  his  dignity  seemed  to  gi'ow  in  proportion  with  the 
indignities  offered  him.  He  stood  tliere  towering  above  the 
crowd  lilie  a  rocli  of  strength,  scanning  the  tlaousauds  of  faces 
with  the  steady  gaze  of  one  who,  in  thinking  of  the  progress  of 
tlie  race,  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  own  personality.  He 
had  come  there  to  protest  against  injustice,  to  use  his  vast 
strength  for  others,  to  spend  and  be  spent  for  millions,  to  die  if 
need  be  !  Raeburn  was  made  of  the  stuff  of  which  martyi's  are 
made  ;  standing  there  face  to  face  with  an  angry  crowd,  which 
might  at  any  moment  break  loose  and  trample  him  to  death  or 
tear  him  to  pieces,  his  heart  was  nevertheless  all  aglow  with  the 
righteousness  of  his  cause,  with  the  burning  desire  to  make  an 
availing  protest  against  an  evil  which  was  desolating  thousands 
of  homes. 

The  majesty  of  his  calmness  began  to  influence  the  mob  ; 
the  hisses  and  groans  died  away  into  silence,  such  compai'ative 
silence,  that  is,  as  was  compatible  with  the  greatness  of  the 
assembly.  Then  Raeburn  braced  himself  up  ;  dignified  before, 
he  now  seemed  even  more  erect  and  stately.  The  knowledge  that 
for  the  moment  he  had  that  huge  crowd  entirely  under  control 
was  stimulating  in  the  highest  degree.  In  a  minute  his  sten- 
torian voice  was  ringing  out  fearlessly  into  the  vast  arena  ; 
thousands  of  hearts  were  vibrating  to  his  impassioned  appeal. 
To  each  one  it  seemed  as  if  he  individually  were  addressed, 

*  You  who  call  yourselves  Englishmen,  I  come  to  appeal  to 
you  to-day  !  You,  who  call  yourselves  freemen,  I  come  to  tell 
you  that  you  are  acting  like  slaves.' 

Then  with  rare  tact,  he  alluded  to  the  strongest  points  of 
the  British  character,  touching  with  consummate  skill  the  vul- 
nerable parts  of  his  audience.  He  took  for  gi-anted  that  their 
aims  were  pure,  their  standard  lofty,  and  by  the  very  sup- 
position raised  for  a  time  the  most  abject  of  his  hearers,  inspired 
them  with  his  own  enthusiasm. 

Presently,  when  he  felt  secure  enough  to  venture  it,  when 
the  crowd  was  hanging  on  his  words  with  breathless  attention, 
he  appealed  no  longer  directly  to  the  people,  but  drew,  in 
graphic  language,  the  picture  of  the  desolations  brought  by 
war.  The  simplicity  of  his  phrases,  his  entire  absence  of 
showiness  or  bombast,  made  his  influence  indescribably  deep 
and  powerful.  A  mere  ranter,  a  frothy  mob  orator,  would 
have  been  silenced  long  before. 

But  this  man  had  somehow  got  hold  of  the  great  assembly, 
had  conquered  them  by  sheer  force  of  will :  in  a  battle  of  one 
will  against  thousands  the  one  had  conquered,  and  Avould  hold 


130  HYDE  PARK. 

its  o^v^l  till  it  had  administered  the  hard  home-thrust  -which 
would  make  the  thousands  wince  and  retaliate. 

Now,  under  the  power  of  that  *  sledge-hammer  Saxon,'  that 
marvellously  graphic  picture  of  misery  and  bereavement,  hard- 
headed,  and  hitherto  hard-hearted  men  were  crying  like  children. 
Then  came  the  rugged,  imvarnished  statement  shouted  forth  iu 
the  speaker's  sternest  voice. 

'  All  this  is  being  done  in  your  name,  men  of  England ! 
not  only  in  your  name,  but  at  your  cost  !  you  are  responsible 
for  this  bloodshed,  this  misery!  How  long  is  it  to  go  onl  How 
long  are  you  free  men  going  to  allow  yourselves  to  be  bloody 
executioners?  How  long  are  you  to  be  slavish  followers  of  that 
grasping  ambition  which  veils  its  foulness  under  the  fair  name 
of  patriotism  1 ' 

Loud  murmurs  began  to  arise  at  this,  and  the  orator  knew 
that  the  ground-swell  betokened  the  coming  storm.  He  pro- 
ceeded with  tenfold  energy,  his  words  came  down  like  hailstones, 
with  a  fiery  indignation  he  delivered  his  mighty  pliili])pic,  in  a 
torrent  of  forceful  words  he  launched  out  the  most  tremendous 
denunciation  he  had  ever  uttered. 

The  string  had  been  gradually  worked  up  to  its  highest 
possible  tension  ;  at  length  when  the  strain  wlis  the  greatest  it 
suddenly  snapped.  Raeburn's  will  had  held  all  those  thousands 
in  check ;  he  had  kept  his  bitterest  enemies  hanging  on  his 
words ;  he  had  lashed  them  into  fury,  and  still  kept  his  grip 
over  them ;  he  had  worked  them  up,  gaining  more  and  more 
power  over  them,  till  at  length,  as  he  shouted  forth  the  last 
words  of  a  grand  peroration,  the  bitterness  and  truth  of  his 
accusations  proved  keener  than  his  restraining  influence. 

He  had  forseen  that  the  spell  would  break,  and  he  knew 
the  instant  it  was  broken.  A  moment  before,  and  he  had  been 
able  to  sway  that  huge  crowd  as  he  pleased ;  now  he  was  at 
their  mercy.  No  will  power,  no  force  of  language,  no  strength 
of  earnestness  or  truth  would  avail  him  now.  All  that  he  had 
to  trust  to  was  his  immense  physical  strength,  and  what  waa 
that  when  measured  against  thousands  1 

He  saw  the  dangerous  surging  movement  in  the  sea  oi 
heads,  and  knew  only  too  well  what  it  betokened.  With  a 
frightful  yell  of  mingled  hatred  and  execration,  the  seething 
human  mass  bore  down  upon  him  !  His  own  followers  and  friends 
did  what  they  coidd  for  him,  but  that  was  very  little.  His 
case  was  desperate.  Desperation,  hoM'cver,  inspires  some 
people  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy.  Life  was  sweet, 
and  that  day  he  fought  for  his  life.     The  very  shouting  and 


AT  death's  DOOR,  131 

hooting  of  the  mob,  the  roar  of  the  angry  multitude,  which 
might  well  have  filled  even  a  brave  man  with  panic,  stimulated 
him,  strengthened  hiin  to  resist  to  the  uttermost. 

He  fought  like  a  lion,  forcing  his  way  through  the  furious 
crowd,  attacked  in  the  most  bratil  way  on  every  side,  yet  ever 
struggling  on  if  only  by  inches.  Never  once  did  his  steadfast- 
ness waver,  never  for  a  single  instant  did  his  spirit  sink.  His 
unfailing  presence  of  mind  enabled  him  to  get  through  what 
would  have  been  impossible  to  most  men,  his  great  height  and 
strength  stood  him  in  good  stead,  while  the  meanness  and  the 
injustice  of  the  attack,  the  immense  odds  against  which  he  was 
fighting  nerved  him  for  the  straggle. 

It  was  more  like  a  hideous  nightmare  than  a  piece  of  actual 
life,  those  fierce  tiger  faces  swarming  around,  that  roar  of 
vindictive  anger,  that  fi-ightful  crushing,  that  hail-storm  of 
savage  blows  !  But,  whether  life  or  nightmare,  it  must  be  gone 
through  with.  In  the  thick  of  the  fight  a  line  of  Goethe  came 
to  his  mind,  one  of  his  favourite  mottoes, — 'Make  good  thy 
standing-place  and  move  the  world.' 

And  even  then  he  half  smiled  to  himself  at  the  forlornness 
of  the  hope  that  he  should  ever  need  a  standing-place  again. 

With  renewed  vigour  he  fought  his  way  on,  and  with  a  sort 
of  glow  of  triumph  and  new-born  hope  had  almost  seen  his  way 
to  a  place  of  comparative  safety,  when  a  fearful  blow  hopelessly 
maimed  him.  With  a  vain  struggle  to  save  himself  he  fell  to 
the  earth, — a  vision  of  fierce  faces,  green  leaves,  and  blue  sky 
flashed  before  his  eyes,  an  inward  vision  of  Erica,  a  moment's 
agony,  and  then  the  surging  crowd  closed  over  him,  and  he 
knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AT  death's  door. 

Sorrow  and  wrong  are  pangs  of  a  new  birth : 
All  we  who  suffer  bleed  for  one  another  ; 
No  Hfe  may  hve  alone,  but  all  in  all ; 
We  lie  within  the  tomb  of  our  dead  selves, 
Waiting  till  One  command  us  to  arise. 

Hon.  Eoden  Noel. 

Knowing  that  Erica  would  have  a  very  anxious  afternoon, 
Charles  Osmond  gave  up  his  brief  mid-day  rest,  snatched  a 
hasty  lunch  at  a  third-rate  restaurant,  finished  his  parish  visits 
sooner  than  usual,  and  reached  the  little  house  in  Guilford 
TciTace  in  time  to  share  the  worst  pai't  of  her  waiting.     He 


132  AT  death's  door. 

found  her  hard  at  work  as  usual,  her  table  strewn  with  papers 
and  books  of  reference.  Raeburn  had  purposely  left  her  some 
work  to  do  fur  him  which  he  knew  would  fully  occupy  her ;  but 
the  mere  fact  that  she  knew  he  had  done  it  on  purpose  to 
engross  her  mind  Avith  other  matters  entirely  prevented  her 
from  giving  it  her  full  attention.  She  had  never  felt  more 
thankful  to  see  Charles  Osmond  than  at  that  moment. 

'  When  your  whole  heart  and  mind  arc  m  Hyde  Park,  how 
are  you  to  drag  tlicm  back  to  what  some  vindictive  old  cariy 
Father  said  about  tlie  eternity  of  punishment]'  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  smile,  which  very  thinly  disguised  her  consuming  anxiety. 

They  sat  down  near  the  open  window.  Erica  taking  posses- 
sion of  that  side  which  commanded  the  view  of  the  entrance  of 
the  cul-de-sac,  Charles  Osmond  did  not  speak  for  a  minute  or 
two,  but  sat  watching  her,  trying  to  realise  to  himself  what 
such  anxiety  as  hers  must  be.  She  was  evidently  determined 
to  keep  outwardly  calm,  not  to  let  her  fears  gain  undue  power 
over  her ;  but  she  could  not  conceal  the  nervous  trembling 
which  beset  her  at  every  sound  of  wheels  in  the  quiet  square, 
nor  did  she  know  that  in  her  brave  eyes  there  lurked  the  most 
visible  manifestation  possible  of  haggard,  anxious  waiting. 
She  sat  with  her  watch  in  her  hand,  the  little  watch  that  Eric 
Haeberlein  had  given  her  when  she  was  almost  a  child,  and 
which,  even  in  the  days  of  their  greatest  poverty,  her  father 
had  never  allowed  her  to  part  with.  What  sti*ange  hours  it 
had  often  measured  for  her !  Age-long  hoiirs  of  grief,  weary 
days  of  illness  and  pain,  times  of  eager  expectation,  times  of 
sickening  anxiety,  times  of  mental  conflict,  of  bafHing  questions 
and  perplexities.  How  the  hands  seemed  to  creep  on  this 
afternoon,  at  times  almost  to  stand  still  ! 

'  Now,  I  suppose  if  you  were  in  my  case,  you  would  pray,' 
said  Erica,  raising  her  ej^es  to  Charles  Osmond.  *  It  must  be  a 
relief,  but  yet,  when  you  come  to  analyse  it,  it  is  most  illogical 
— a  fearful  waste  of  time.  If  there  is  a  Cod  who  works  by 
fixed  laws,  who  sees  the  whole  maze  of  every  one's  life  before- 
hand, then  tlie  particular  time  and  manner  of  my  fitiier's 
death  must  be  already  ajjpointed,  and  no  prayer  of  mine  that 
he  may  come  safely  through  this  afternoon's  danger  can  be  of 
the  least  avail.  Besides,  if  a  (jlod  could  be  turned  i-ound  from 
His  original  piu'pose  by  human  wills  and  much  speaking,  I 
hardly  think  He  would  be  worth  believing  in.' 

'You  are  taking  the  lowest  view  of  prayer — mere  petition; 
but  even  that,  I  think,  is  set  on  its  right  footing  as  soon  as  we 
grasp  the  true  conception  of  the  ideal  father.     Do  you  mean  to 


AT  death's  door.  133 

Bay  that,  because  your  father's  rules  were  unwavering  and  his 
day's  work  marked  out  beforehand,  he  did  not  like  you  to  come 
to  him  when  you  were  a  little  child  with  all  your  wishes  and 
longings  and  requests,  even  though  they  were  sometimes 
childish  and  often  impossible  to  gratify  1  Would  he  have  been 
better  pleased  if  you  had  shut  up  everything  in  your  own 
heart,  aud  never  of  your  own  accord  told  him  anything  about 
your  babyish  plans  and  wants  V 

'  Still,  prayer  seems  to  me  waste  of  time,'  said  Erica. 

'  What  !  if  it  brings  you  a  talk  with  your  Father  1  If  it  is 
a  relief  to  you  and  a  pleasure — because  a  sign  of  trust  and 
love — to  Him  1  But  in  one  way  I  entirely  agree  with  you, 
unless  it  is  spontaneous  it  is  not  only  useless  but  harmful. 
Imagine  a  child  forced  to  talk  to  its  father !  And  this  seems 
to  me  the  truest  defence  of  prayer  ;  to  the  "  natural  man  "  it 
always  will  seem  foolishness,  to  the  "  spiritual  man  " — to  one 
who  has  recognised  the  All-Father — it  is  the  absolute  necessity 
of  life.  And  I  think  by  degrees  one  passes  from  eager  petition 
for  personal  and  physical  good  things  into  the  truer  and  more 
Christlike  spirit  of  prayer.  *'  These  are  my  fears,  these  are  my 
wishes,  but  not  my  will  but  Thine  be  done."  Shakspere  had 
got  hold  of  a  grand  truth,  it  seems  to  me,  when  he  said, — 

"  So  find  we  profit  by  losing  of  our  prayers."' 

'And  yet  your  ideal  man  distinctly  said,  "Ask  and  ye 
shall  receive,"'  said  Erica.  '  There  are  no  limitations.  For 
aught  we  know,  some  pig-headed  fanatic  may  be  at  this 
moment  praying  that  God  in  His  mercy  would  rid  the  earth  of 
that  most  dangerous  man  Luke  Raeburn  ;  while  I  might  be — 
of  course  I  am  not,  but  it  is  conceivable  that  I  might  be — 
piaying  for  his  safoty.  Both  of  us  might  claim  the  same 
promise,  "Ask  and  yc  shall  receive.'" 

^  You  forget  one  thing,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  You  would 
both  pray  to  the  Father,  and  his  answer — which  you,  by  the 
way,  might  consider  no  answer — would  be  the  answer  of  a 
father.  Do  you  not  think  the  fanatio  would  certainly  find 
profit  in  having  his  most  unbrotherly  request  disregarded  ? 
And  the  true  loss  or  gain  of  prayer  would  surely  be  in  this : 
the  fanatic  would,  by  his  un-Christlike  request,  put  himself 
further  from  God ;  you,  by  your  spontaneous  and  natural 
avowal  of  need  and  recognition  of  a  Supreme  loving  will,  would 
draw  nearer  to  God.  Nor  do  we  yet  at  all  understand  the 
extraordinary  influence  exerted  on  others  by  any  steady, 
earnest  concentration  of  thought ;  science  is  but  just  awakening 


131  AT  death's  door. 

to  the  fact  that  there  is  an  imknoAvn  power  which  we  have 
hitherto  never  dreamed  of.  I  have  great  hope  that  in  this 
direction,  as  in  all  othei'S,  science  may  show  us  the  hidden 
workings  of  our  Father.' 

Erica  forgot  her  anxiety  for  a  moment ;  she  was  watching 
Charles  Osmond's  face  with  mingled  curiosity  and  pei-plexity. 
To  speak  to  one  whose  belief  in  the  Unseen  seemed  stronger 
and  more  influential  than  most  people's  belief  in  the  seen,  was 
always  very  strange  to  her,  and  with  her  prophet  she  was 
almost  always  conscious  of  this  double  life  (she  considered  it 
double — a  real  outer  and  an  imaginary  inner).  His  strong 
conviction  ;  the  every-day  language  which  he  used  in  speaking 
of  those  truths  which  most  people,  from  a  mistaken  notion  of 
reverence,  wrap  up  in  a  sort  of  ecclesiastical  jihraseology ; 
above  all,  the  carrying  out  in  his  life  of  the  idea  of  universal 
brotherhood,  with  so  many  a  mere  form  of  words — all  served  to 
impress  Erica  very  deeply.  She  knew  him  too  well  and  loved 
him  too  truly  to  pause  often,  as  it  were,  to  analyse  his 
character.  Every  now  and  then,  however,  some  new  phase  was 
borne  in  upon  her,  and  some  chance  word,  emphasising  the 
difference  between  them,  forced  her  from  sheer  honesty  to  own 
how  much  that  was  noble  seemed  in  him  to  be  the  outcome  of 
faith  in  Christ. 

They  went  a  little  more  deeply  into  the  prayer  question. 
Then,  with  the  wonder  growing  on  her  more  and  more,  Erica 
suddenly  exclaimed,  '  It  is  so  wonderful  to  me  that  you  can 
believe  without  logical  proof — believe  a  thing  which  affects 
your  whole  life  so  immensly,  and  yet  be  unable  to  demonstrate 
the  very  existence  of  a  God  !' 

'  Do  you  believe  your  father  loves  you  ?,  asked  Charles 
Osmond. 

'  :My  father  ?     Why,  of  course.' 

'  YoTi  can't  logically  prove  that  his  love  has  any  true 
existence.* 

'Why,  yes  !'  exclaimed  Erica.  'Not  a  day  passes  without 
some  Avord,  look,  thought,  which  woidd  prove  it  to  any  one. 
if  there  is  one  thing  that  I  am  certain  of  in  the  whole  Avorld,  it 
is  that  my  father  loves  me.  Why,  you  who  know  him  so  well, 
you  must  know  that !     Yoii  must  have  seen  that  !' 

'  All  his  care  of  you  may  be  mere  self-interest,'  said  Charles 
Osmond.  '  Perhaps  he  puts  on  a  sort  of  appearance  of  aflection 
for  you  just  for  the  sake  of  what  people  would  say — not  a  very 
likely  thing  for  Mr.  Raeburn  to  consider,  I  own.  Still,  you 
can't  demonstrate  to  me  that  his  love  is  a  reality.' 


AT  death's  Doon.  135 

'  But  I  hnow  it  is  ! '  cried  Erica,  vehemently. 

'  Of  covirse  you  know,  my  child ;  you  know  in  your  heart, 
and  our  hearts  can  teach  us  what  no  power  of  intellect,  no 
skill  in  logic  can  ever  teach  us.  You  can't  logically  prove  the 
existence  of  yoiir  father's  love,  and  I  can't  logically  prove  the 
existence  of  the  All-Father ;  but  in  our  hearts  we  both  of  us 
know.  The  deepest,  most  sacred  realities  are  generally  those 
of  heart-knowledge,  and  quite  out  of  the  pale  of  logic' 

Ei'ica  did  not  speak,  but  sat  musing.  After  all,  what  could 
be  proved  with  absolute  certainty  ?  Why,  nothing,  except 
such  bare  facts  as  that  two  and  two  make  four.  Was  even 
mathematical  proof  so  absolutely  certain  ]  Where  they  not 
already  beginning  to  talk  of  a  possible  fourth  dimension  of 
space  when  even  that  might  no  longer  be  capable  of  de- 
monstration. 

'  Well,  setting  aside  actual  proof,'  she  resumed,  after  a 
silence,  '  how  do  you  bring  it  down  even  to  a  probability  that 
God  isr 

'  We  must  all  of  us  start  with  a  supposition,'  said  Charles 
Osmond.  '  There  must  on  the  one  hand  either  be  everlasting 
matter  or  everlasting  force  (whether  these  be  two  real  exist- 
ences, or  whether  matter  be  only  force  conditioned),  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  you  have  the  alternative  of  the  everlasting  "  He." 
You  at  present  base  your  belief  on  the  first  alternative.  I 
base  mine  on  the  last,  which,  I  grant  you,  is  at  the  outset  the 
most  difficult  of  the  two.  I  find,  however,  that  nine  times  out 
of  ten  the  most  difficult  theory  is  the  truest.  Granting  the 
everlasting  "He,"  you  must  allow  self-consciousness,  without 
which  there  could  be  no  true  personality.  Then,  being  the 
Originator,  He  must  be  all-powerful,  all  knowledge-full,  and  all 
love-full.  We  will  not  quarrel  about  names ;  call  the  Ever- 
lasting Avhat  you  please,  "  Father  "  seems  to  me  at  once  the 
highest  and  simplest  name.' 

'  But  evil !'  bi'oke  in  Erica,  triumphantly.  '  If  He  originates 
all,  he  must  originate  evil  as  well  as  good.' 

'  Certainly,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  '  He  has  expressly  told 
us  so.  "  I  form  the  light  and  create  darkness  ;  I  make  peace, 
and  create  evil;  I,  the  Lord,  do  all  these  things."' 

'  I  recollect  now,  we  spoke  of  this  two  or  three  years  ago,' 
said  Erica.  '  You  said  that  the  highest  good  was  attained  by 
passing  through  struggles  and  temptations.' 

'  Think  of  it  in  this  way,'  said  Charles  Osmond.  '  The 
Father  is  educating  His  cliildren  ;  what  education  was  ever 
brought  about  without  pain  "f     The  wise  human  father  does  not 


136  AT  death's  door. 

so  much  shield  his  child  from  small  paius,  but  encourages  him 
to  get  -wisdom  from  them  for  the  future,  tries  to  teach  him 
endurance  and  courage.  Pain  is  necessary  as  an  element  in 
education,  possibly  there  is  no  evolution  possible  without  it. 
The  father  may  i-egrct  it,  but,  if  he  is  -ftise,  knows  that  it  must 
be.  He  sufl'ers  twice  as  much  as  the  child  from  the  infliction 
of  the  pain.  The  All-Father,  being  at  once  all-knowing  and 
all-loving,  can  see  the  end  of  the  education  while  we  only  see 
it  in  process,  and  perhaps  exclaim,  "What  a  frightful  state 
of  things,"  or  like  your  favourite  "  Stephen  Blackpool,"  "  It's 
all  a  muddle!"' 

*  And  the  end  you  consider  to  be  perfection,  and  eternal 
union  with  God.     How  can  you  think  immortality  probable?'" 

'  It  is  the  necessary  outcome  of  belief  in  such  a  God,  such 
a  Father  as  we  have  spoken  of.  What !  could  God  have  willed 
that  His  children  whom  He  really  loves  should,  after  a  time, 
fade  xitterly  away  1  If  so,  he  would  be  less  loving  than  an 
average  earthly  father.  If  He  did  indeed  love  them,  and 
would  fain  have  had  them  ever  with  Him,  but  could  not,  then 
He  would  not  be  all-powerful.' 

'  I  see  you  are  a  uuiversalist,  a  great  contrast  to  my  Early 
Father  here,  who  gloats  over  the  delightful  prospect  of  watching 
from  his  comfortable  heaven  the  tortures  of  all  lui believers. 
But,  tell  me,  what  do  you  think  would  be  our  position  in  your 
unseen  world  ]  I  suppose  the  mere  realisation  of  having  given 
one's  life  in  a  mistaken  cause  would  be  about  the  most  terrible 
pain  conceivable]' 

'  I  think,'  said  Chai-les  Osmond,  with  one  of  his  grave,  quiet 
smiles,  '  that  death  will  indeed  be  your  "  gate  of  life,"  that 
seeing  the  light  you  will  come  to  your  true  self,  and  exclaim, 
"  Who'd  have  thought  it?"  ' 

The  every-day  language  sounded  quaint,  it  made  Erica 
smile  ;  but  Charles  Osmond  continued,  with  a  brightness  in  his 
eyes  which  she  was  far  from  understanding,  'And  you  know 
there  are  to  be  those  who  shall  say,  "  Lord,  when  saw  we  Thee 
in  distress  and  helped  Thee  1 "  They  had  not  recognised  Him 
here,  but  He  recognised  them  there  1  They  shared  in  the 
"Come,  ye  blessed  of  my  Father.'" 

'  Well,'  said  Erica,  thoughtfully,  *  if  any  Christianity  bo 
tnie,  it  must  be  your  loving  belief,  not  the  bloodthirsty  scheme 
of  the  Calviuists.  If  that  could  by  any  possibility  be  true,  I 
should  greatly  prefer,  like  Kingsley's  dear  old  "  Wulf,"  to 
share  hell  with  my  own  people.' 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when,  with  a  startled 


AT  death's  door.  137 

cry,  she  sprang  to  lier  feet  and  hurried  to  the  door.  The  next 
moment  Charles  Osmond  saw  Tom  pass  the  window ;  he  was 
unmistakably  the  bearer  of  bad  news. 

His  first  panting  words  were  reassviring — '  Brian  says  you 
are  not  to  be  frightened  3'  but  they  were  evidently  the  mere 
repetition  of  a  message.  Tom  himself  was  almost  hopeless ; 
his  wrath  and  grief  become  more  apparent  every  minute  as  he 
gave  an  incoherent  account  of  the  afternoon's  work. 

'  The  brutes,  the  fiends,  had  half  killed  the  chieftain,  had 
set  on  him  like  so  many  tigers.  Brian  and  Hazeldine  were 
bringing  him  home — had  sent  him  on  to  prepare.' 

Erica  had  listened  so  far  with  a  colourless  face,  and  hands 
tightly  clasped  ;  but  the  word  '  prepare '  seemed  to  bring  new 
life  to  her.     In  an  instant  she  was  her  strongest  self. 

*  They  will  never  try  to  take  him  up  that  steep,  narrow 
staircase  !  Quick,  Tom  !  Help  me  to  move  this  couch  into 
the  study.' 

The  little  Irish  servant  was  pressed  into  the  service,  too, 
and  sent  upstairs  to  fetch  and  carry,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes 
the  preparations  were  complete,  and  Erica  had  at  hand  all  the 
apjjliances  most  likely  to  be  needed.  Just  as  all  was  done, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  a  minute's  pause  would  be 
the  '  last  straw,'  Tom  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  square, 
and  hurried  out.  Erica  stood  in  the  doorway  watching,  and 
presently  saw  a  small  crowd  of  helpers  bearing  a  deathly- 
looking  burden.  Whiteness  of  death — redness  of  blood  !  The 
ground  seemed  rocking  beneath  her  feet,  when  a  strong  hand 
took  hers  and  drew  her  into  the  house. 

'Don't  be  afraid,'  said  a  voice,  which  she  knew  to  be  Brian's, 
though  a  black  mist  would  not  let  her  see  him.  '  He  was 
conscious  a  minute  ago ;  this  is  only  from  the  pain  of  moving. 
Which  room'?' 

*  The  study,'  she  replied,  recovering  herself,  '  Give  me 
something  to  do,  Brian,  quickly.' 

He  saw  that  in  doing  lay  her  safety,  and  kept  her  fully 
employed,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  from  sheer  lack  of  time  she 
was  able  to  stave  off  the  faintness  which  had  threatened  to 
overpower  her.  After  a  time  her  father  came  to  himself,  and 
Erica's  face,  which  had  been  the  last  in  his  mind  in  full  con- 
sciousness, was  the  first  which  now  presented  itself  to  his 
awakening  gaze.     He  smiled. 

*  Well,  Erica  !  So,  after  all,  they  haven't  quite  done  for 
me  !     Nine  lives  like  a  cat,  as  I  always  told  you.' 

His  voice  was   faint,  but  with  all   his  wonted   energy  he 
7 


138  AT  DEATIl'a  DOOR. 

raised  himself  before  they  could  remonstrate.  He  was  far 
more  injured,  however,  than  he  knew  ;  with  a  stifled  groan  ho 
fell  back  once  more  in  a  swoon,  and  it  was  many  hours  before 
they  were  able  to  restore  him. 

After  that  fever  set  in,  and  a  shadow  as  of  death  fell  on  the 
house  in  Guilford  Terrace.  Doctors  came  and  went ;  Brian 
almost  lived  with  his  patient ;  friends — Raeburn  had  hosts  of 
them — came  with  help  of  every  descrii^tion.  The  gloomy  little 
alley  admitted  every  day  crowds  of  inquirers,  who  came  to  the 
door,  read  the  bulletin,  glanced  up  at  the  windows,  and  went 
away  looking  graver  than  when  they  came. 

Erica  lost  count  of  time  altogether.  The  past  seemed 
blotted  out ;  the  weight  of  the  present  was  so  gi-eat  that  she 
would  not  admit  any  thought  of  the  future,  though  conscious 
always  of  a  blank  dread  which  she  dared  not  pause  to  analyse, 
sufficient  indeed  for  her  day  was  the  evil  thereof !  She 
struggled  on  somehow  with  a  sort  of  despairing  strength ;  only 
once  or  twice  did  she  even  recollect  the  outside  world. 

It  happened  that  on  the  first  Wednesday  after  the  Hyde 
Park  uiceting  some  one  mentioned  the  day  of  the  week  in  her 
hearing.  She  was  in  the  sick-room  at  the  time,  but  at  once 
remembered  that  her  week's  work  was  untouched,  that  she  had 
not  Avritten  a  line  for  the  Idol-Breaker.  Every  idea  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  her  head  ;  for  a  minute  she  felt  that  to  save 
her  life  she  could  not  write  a  line.  But  still  she  conscientiously 
struggled  to  remember  what  subject  had  been  allotted  her, 
and  in  the  temporary  stillness  of  the  first  night-wntch  drew 
writing  materials  towards  hei*,  and  leant  her  head  on  her  hands 
until,  almost  by  an  effort  of  will,  she  at  length  recalled  the 
theme  for  her  article. 

Of  course  !  it  was  to  be  that  disgraceful  disturbance  in  the 

church  at  Z .     She  remembered  the  whole  affair  now,  it  all 

rose  up  before  her  graphically — not  a  bad  subject  at  all  !  their 
party  might  make  a  good  deal  by  it.  Her  article  must  be 
bright,  descriptive,  sarcastic.  Yet  how  was  she  to  write  such 
an  article  when  her  heart  felt  like  lead  ]  An  involuntary  '  I 
can't'  rose  to  her  lips,  and  she  glanced  at  her  father's  motionless 
form,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  Then  one  of  his  sayings  came 
to  her  mind,  '  No  such  word  as  "  Can't "  in  the  dictionary,'  and 
she  da.shed  the  teai-s  from  her  eyes,  snatched  up  the  pen,  and 
began  to  write  rapidly — almost  defiantly.  No  sooner  had  she 
began  than  her  very  exhaustion,  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and 
the  stress  of  circumstance  came  to  her  aid  —  she  had  never 
before  written  so  brilliantly. 

The  humour  of  the  scene  struck  her  ;  little  flashes  of  mirth 


AT  death's  door.  139 

at  the  expense  of  both  priest  and  people,  dehcate  sarcasms,  the 
more  searching  from  their  very  refinement,  awoke  in  her  brain 
and  were  swiftly  transcribed.  In  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
most  daring  sentences  Raeburn  stirred.  Erica's  pen  was  thrown 
down  at  once ;  she  was  at  his  side  absorbed  once  more  in 
attending  to  liis  wants,  forgetful  qnite  of  religious  controversy, 
of  the  Idol-Brealcer,  of  anything  in  fact  in  the  whole  world  but 
her  fiither.  Not  till  an  hour  had  passed  was  she  free  to  finish 
her  writing,  but  by  the  time  her  aunt  came  to  relieve  guar-d  at 
two  o'clock  the  article  was  finished  and  Erica  stole  noiselessly 
into  the  next  room  to  put  it  up. 

To  her  surprise  she  found  that  Tom  had  not  gone  to  bed. 
He  was  still  toiling  away  at  his  desk  with  a  towel  round  his 
head  ;  she  could  almost  have  smiled  at  the  ludici'ous  mixture 
of  grief  and  sleepiness  on  his  face,  had  not  her  own  heart  been 
so  loaded  with  care  and  sadness.  The  post  brought  in  what 
Tom  described  as  '  bushels '  of  letters  every  day,  and  he  was 
working  away  at  them  now  with  sleepy  heroism. 

'  How  tired  you  look,'  said  Erica.  '  See  !  I  have  brought 
in  this  for  the  Idol.' 

'  You've  been  writing  it  now  !  that  is  good  of  you.  I  was 
afraid  we  should  have  to  make  up  with  some  wretched  padding 
of  Blank's.' 

He  took  the  sheets  from  her  and  began  to  read.  Laughter 
is  often  only  one  remove  from  grief,  and  Tom,  though  he  was 
sad-hearted  enough,  could  not  keep  his  countenance  through 
Erica's  article.  First  his  shoulders  began  to  shake,  then  he 
burst  into  such  a  pai'oxysm  of  noiseless  laughter  that  Erica, 
fearing  that  he  could  not  restrain  himself,  and  would  be  heard 
in  the  sick-room,  pulled  the  towel  from  his  forehead  over  his 
mouth  ;  then,  conquered  herself  by  the  absurdity  of  his  appear- 
ance, she  was  obliged  to  bury  her  own  face  in  her  hands,  laughing 
more  and  more  whenever  the  incongruousness  of  the  laughter 
occurred  to  her.  When  they  had  exhausted  themselves,  the 
profound  depression  which  had  been  the  real  cause  of  the  -vno- 
leut  reaction  returned  with  double  force.  Tom  sighed  heavily 
and  finished  reading  the  article  with  the  gravest  of  faces.  He 
was  astonished  that  Erica  could  have  written  at  such  a  time  an 
article  positively  scintillating  with  mirth. 

'  How  did  you  manage  anything  so  witty  to  night  of  all 
nights  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Don't  you  remember  Hans  Andersen's  clown  Punchinello,' 
said  Erica.  '  He  never,  laughed  and  joked  so  gaily  as  the  night 
when  his  love  died  and  his  own  heart  was  broken.' 

There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  made  Tom  re{>ly,  quiclily, 


I  -to  AT  death's  door. 

'  Don't  write  any  more  just  now ;  the  professor  has  promised 
us  something  for  next  Avcck.  Don't  write  any  more  till — till 
the  chieftain  is  well. 

After  that  she  wished  him  good-night  rather  hastily,  crept 
upstaii"s  to  her  attic,  and  threw  herself  down  on  her  bed.  Why 
had  he  spoken  of  the  future  1  "Why  had  his  voice  hesitated? 
No,  she  would  not  think,  she  would  not ! 

So  the  article  appeared  in  that  week's  Idol-Breahr,  and 
thousands  and  thousands  of  people  laughed  over  it.  It  even 
excited  displeased  comment  from  '  the  other  side,'  and  in  many 
ways  did  a  great  deal  of  what  in  Guilford  Terrace  was  considered 
'good  work.'  For  Erica  herself,  it  was  long  before  she  had  time 
to  give  it  another  thought ;  it  Avas  to  her  only  a  desperately 
hard  duty  which  she  had  succeeded  in  doing.  Nobody  ever 
guessed  how  much  it  had  cost  her. 

The  weary  time  dragged  on,  days  and  Avecks  passed  by  ; 
Raebiirn  was  growing  weaker,  but  clung  to  life  with  extra- 
ordinary tenacity.  And  now  very  bitterly  they  felt  the  evils  of 
this  voluntarily  embraced  poverty,  for  the  summer  heat  was  for 
a  few  days  almost  tropical,  and  the  tiny  little  rooms  in  the 
lodging-hoiise  Avcre  stifling.  Brian  was  very  anxious  to  have 
the  patient  moved  across  to  his  father's  house  :  but,  though 
Charles  Osmond  said  all  he  could  in  favour  of  the  scheme,  the 
other  doctors  would  not  consent,  thinking  the  risk  of  removal 
too  great.  And,  besides,  it  would  be  useless,  they  maintained, — • 
the  atheist  was  evidently  dying.  Brian,  who  was  the  youngest, 
could  not  cany  out  his  wishes  in  defiance  of  the  others,  but  he 
would  not  deny  himself  the  hope  of  even  yet  saving  Erica's 
father.  He  devised  punkahs,  became  almost  nurse  and  doctor 
in  one,  and  utterly  refused  to  lose  heart.  Erica  herself  was  the 
only  other  person  who  shared  his  hopefulness,  or  perhaps  her 
feeling  could  hardly  be  described  by  that  word  ;  she  was  not 
hopeful,  but  she  had  so  resolutely  set  herself  to  live  in  the 
present  that  she  had  managed  altogether  to  crowd  out  the 
future,  and  with  it  the  Avorst  fear. 

One  day,  however,  it  broke  upon  her  suddenly.  Some  one 
had  left  a  newspaper  in  the  sick-room  ;  it  Avas  weeks  since  she 
had  seen  one,  ?tni  in  a  brief  interval,  Avhile  her  father  slept,  or 
seemed  to  sleep,  she  took  it  up  half  mechanically.  IIoav  much  it 
Avould  have  interested  her  a  little  Avhile  ago,  how  meaningless  it 
all  seemed  to  her  now  !  '  Latest  Telegrams,'  '  News  from  the 
Seat  of  Wai*,'  '  Parliamentary  Intelligence,' — a  speech  by  Sir 
Michael  Cunningham,  one  of  iier  heroes,  on  a  question  in  Avhich 
she  Avas  interested.     Slie  could  not  read  it,  all  the  life  seemed 


AT  DEATH'S  DOOR.  141 

gone  out  of  it,  to-day  the  paper  was  nothing  to  her  but  a  broad 
sheet  with  so  many  columns  of  printed  matter.  But  as  she  was 
putting  it  down  their  own  name  caught  her  eye.  All  at  once 
her  benumbed  faculties  regained  their  power,  her  heart  began 
to  beat  wildly,  for  there,  in  clearest  print,  in  short,  choppy, 
luiequivocal  sentences,  was  the  hideous  fear  which  she  had  con- 
trived so  long  to  banish. 

'  Mr.   Eaebum    is  dying.      The  bulletins  have  daily  been 

gi'owing  less  and  less  hopeful.     Yesterday  Dr.  11 ,  who  had 

been  called  in,  could  only  confirm  the  unfixvourable  opinion  of 
the  other  doctors.  In  all  probability  the  days  of  the  great 
apostle  of  atheism  ai'e  numbered.  It  rests  with  the  Hyde  Park 
rioters,  and  those  who  by  word  and  example  have  incited  them, 
to  bear  the  responsibility  of  making  a  martyr  of  such  a  man  as 
Mr.  Luke  Raeburn.  Emphatically  disclaiming  the  slightest 
sympathy  with  Mr.  Raeburn's  religious  views,  w^e  yet ' 

But  Erica  could  read  no  more.  Whatever  modicum  of 
charity  the  writer  ventured  to  put  forth  was  lost  upon  her.  The 
opening  sentence  danced  befoi-e  her  eyes  in  lettei'S  of  fire.  That 
morning  she  met  Brian  in  the  passage  and  drew  him  into  the 
sitting-room.     He  saw  at  once  how  it  was  with  her. 

'  Look  ! '  she  said,  holding  the  newspaper  towards  him.  '  Is 
that  true  1  or  is  it  only  a  sensation  trap, — or  wiitten  for  party 
purposes.' 

Her  delicate  lips  were  closed  with  their  hardest  expression, 
her  eyes  only  looked  grave  and  questioning.  She  watched  his 
face  as  he  read,  lost  her  last  hoj^e,  and  with  the  look  of  such 
anguish  as  he  had  never  before  seen,  drew  the  paper  from  him, 
and  caught  his  hand  in  hers  in  wild  entreaty. 

'  Oh,  Brian,  Brian  !  is  there  no  hope  1  Surely  you  can  do 
something  for  him.  There  must  be  hope,  he  is  so  strong,  so  full 
of  life  ! ' 

He  struggled .  hard  for  voice  and  words  to  answer  her,  but 
the  imploring  pressure  of  her  hands  on  his  had  nearly  unnerved 
him.  Already  the  grief  that  kills  lurked  in  her  eyes — he  knew 
that  if  her  father  died  she  would  not  long  survive  him. 

'  Don't  say  what  is  untrue  ! '  she  continued.  *  Don't  let  me 
drive  you  into  telling  a  lie, — but  only  tell  me  if  there  is  indeed 
no  hope — no  chance.' 

*  It  may  be,'  said  Brian.  '  You  must  not  expect,  for  those 
far  wiser  than  I  say  it  cannot  be.  But  I  hope— yes,  I  still 
hope.' 

On  that  crumb  of  comfort  she  lived ;  but  it  was  a  weary  day, 
and  for  the  first  time  she  noticed  that  her  fether,  who  was  free 


142  AT  death's  door. 

from  fever,  followed  her  everywhere  with  hia  eyes.  She  knew 
intviitively  that  he  thought  himself  dying. 

Towards  evening  she  was  sitting  beside  him  slowly  drawing 
her  fingers  through  his  thick  masses  of  snow-white  hair  in  the 
way  he  liked  best,  when  he  looked  suddenly  right  into  her  eyes 
with  liis  own  strangely  similar  ones,  deep,  earnest  eyes,  full  now 
of  a  sort  of  dumb  yearning. 

'  Little  son  Eric,'  he  said  faintly,  '  you  will  go  on  with  the 
work  I  am  having.' 

'  Yes,  fatlier,'  she  replied  firmly,  though  her  heart  felt  as  if 
it  would  break. 

'  A  harmful  delusion,'  he  murmured,  half  to  himself,  '  taking 
up  our  best  men  !  swallowing  up  the  money  of  the  people  ! 
Wliat's  that  singing,  Erica  1 ' 

'  It  is  the  children  in  the  hospital,'  she  replied.  '  I'll  shut 
the  window  if  they  disturb  you,  father.' 

'  No,'  he  said.  '  One  can  tolerate  the  delusion  for  them  if 
it  makes  their  pain  more  bearable.  Poor  bairns  !  poor  bairns  ! 
Pain  is  an  odd  mystery.' 

He  drew  down  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his,  seeming  to  listen 
to  the  singing,  which  floated  in  clearly  through  the  open  window 
at  riglit  angles  with  the  back  windows  of  the  hospital.  Neither 
of  them  knew  what  the  hymn  was,  but  the  refrain  which  came 
after  every  verse  as  if  even  the  tinies  were  joining  in  it  was 
quite  audible  to  Luke  Raeburn  and  his  daiightcr. 

'  Through  hfe's  long  tlay,  and  death's  dark  uight, 
Oh,  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light.' 

Erica's  breath  came  in  gasps.  To  be  reminded  then  that 
life  was  long,  and  that  death  was  dark  ! 

She  thought  she  had  never  prayed,  she  had  never  consciously 
prayed,  but  her  whole  life  for  tlie  past  three  years  had  been  an 
luispoken  prayer.  Never  was  tliere  a  more  true  desire  entirely 
unexpressed,  than  the  desire  which  now  seemed  to  possess  her 
wh(^le  being.  The  darkness  would  soon  hide  for  ever  the  being 
she  most  lo\ed.  Oh,  if  she  could  but  honestly  think  that  He 
who  called  Himself  the  Light  of  the  world  was  indeed  still 
living  still  ready  to  help  ! 

But  to  allow  her  distress  to  gain  the  mastery  of  her  would 
certainly  disturb  and  grieve  her  father.  With  a  great  eflbrt 
she  stifled  the  sobs  which  would  rise  in  her  throat,  and  waited 
in  rigid  stillness.  When  the  last  notes  of  the  hymn  had  died 
away  into  silence,  she  turned  to  look  at  her  father.  He  had 
fallen  asleep. 


ANSWiiRrD  OR  UNANSWERED.  143 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ANSWERED  OR  UNASWERBD  1 

•Glory  to  God— to  God  ! '  he  saith, 
'  Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  lile  is  perficted  by  death.' 

E.  B.  Beowninq. 

*Mr.  Raeburn  is  curiously  like  the  celebrated  dog  of  nurserv 
lore,  who  appertained  to  the  ancient  and  far-famed  Mother 
Hubbard.  All  the  doctor's  gave  him  up,  all  the  secularists  pre- 
pared mourning  garments,  the  printers  were  meditating  black 
borders  for  the  Idol-Brea1cer,  the  relative  merits  of  burial  and 
cremation  were  already  in  discussion,  when  the  dog — we  beg 
pardon — the  leader  of  atheism,  came  to  life  again. 

"  She  went  to  the  joiner's  to  buy  him  a  coffin, 
But  when  she  came  back  the  dog  was  laughing. " 

"  History,"  as  a  great  man  was  fond  of  remarking,  "  repeats 
itself." ' 

Eaeburn  laughed  heartily  over  the  accounts  of  his  recovery 
in  the  comic  papers.  No  one  better  appreciated  the  very  clever 
representation  of  himself  as  a  huge  bull-dog  starting  up  into 
life  while  Brittauia  in  widow's  weeds  brought  in  a  parish  coffin. 
Erica  would  hardly  look  at  the  thing  she  had  suffered  too  much 
to  be  able  to  endure  any  jokes  on  the  subject,  and  she  felt  hurt 
and  angry  that  what  had  given  her  such  anguish  should  be 
turned  into  a  foolish  jest. 

At  length,  after  many  weeks  of  weary  anxiety,  she  was 
able  to  breathe  freely  once  more,  for  her  father  steadily  regained 
his  strength.  The  devotion  of  her  whole  time  and  strength  and 
thought  to  another  had  done  wonders  for  her,  her  character  had 
strangely  deepened  and  mellowed.  But  no  sooner  was  she  free 
to  begin  her  ordinary  life  than  new  perplexities  beset  her  on 
every  side. 

During  her  own  long  illness  she  had  of  course  been  debarred 
from  attending  any  lectures  or  meetings  whatever.  In  the 
years  following,  before  she  had  quite  regained  her  sti-ength,  she 
had  generally  gone  to  hear  her  father,  but  had  never  become 
again  a  regular  attendant  at  the  lecture-hall.  Now  that  she 
was  quite  well,  however,  there  Avas  nothing  to  prevent  her 
attending  as  many  lectures  as  she  pleased,  and  naturally,  her 
position  as  Luke  Racbuni's  daughter  made  her  presence 
desirable.      So  it  came   to  pass  one  Sunday  evening  in  July 


144  ANSWERED  OR  UXAXSWERED. 

that  slie  happened  to  be  present  at  a  lecture  given  by  a  Mr. 
Masterman. 

He  was  a  man  whom  they  knew  intimately.  Erica  liked 
him  sufficiently  well  in  private  life,  and  he  had  been  remark- 
ably kind  and  helpful  at  the  time  of  her  father's  illness.  It 
was  some  years,  however,  since  she  had  heard  him  lecture,  and 
this  evening,  by  the  virulence  of  his  attack  on  the  character 
of  Christ,  he  revealed  to  her  how  much  her  ground  had  shifted 
since  she  had  last  heard  him.  It  was  not  that  he  was  an 
opponent  of  existing  Christianity — her  father  was  that,  she 
herself  was  that,  and  felt  bound  to  be  as  long  as  she  considered 
it  a  lie — but  I\Ir.  Masterman's  attack  seemed  to  her  grossly  un- 
unfair,  almost  wilfully  inaccurate,  and,  in  addition,  his  sarcasm 
and  pleasantries  seemed  to  her  odiously  vulgar.  He  was 
answered  by  a  most  miserable  representative  of  Christianity, 
^who  made  a  foolish,  weak,  blustering  speech,  and  tried  to  pay 
the  atheist  back  in  his  own  coin.  Erica  felt  wretched  She 
longed  to  get  up  and  speak  herself,  longing  flatly  to  conti-adict 
the  champion  of  her  own  cause ;  then  grew  frightened  at  the 
strength  of  her  feelings.  Could  this  be  mere  love  of  fair  play 
and  justice?  Was  her  feeling  merely  that  of  a  barrister  who 
could  argue  as  well  on  one  side  as  the  other  ?  And  yet  her  dis- 
pleasure in  itself  proved  little  or  nothing.  Would  not  Charles 
Osmond  be  displeased  and  indignant  if  he  heard  her  father 
unjustly  spoken  of]  Yes,  but  then  Luke  llaeburn  was  a  living 
man,  and  Christ — was  she  even  sure  that  ho  had  ever  lived  1 
Well,  yes,  sure  of  that,  but  of  how  much  more] 

When  the  assembly  broke  up,  her  mind  was  in  a  miserabic 
chaos  of  doubt. 

It  was  one  of  tliose  delicious  summer  evenings  when  even 
in  East  London  the  skies  are  mellow  and  the  air  sweet  and 
cool. 

'  Oh,  Tom,  let  us  walk  homo  !'  she  exclaimed,  longing  for 
change  of  scene  and  exercise. 

'  All  right,'  he  replied,  '  Ell  take  you  a  short  cut,  if  you  don't 
mind  a  few  back  slums  to  begin  Avith.' 

Now  Erica  was  familiar  enough  with  the  sight  of  poverty 
and  squalor ;  she  had  not  lived  at  the  West  End,  where  you 
may  entirely  forget  the  existence  of  the  poor.  The  knowledge 
of  evil  had  come  to  her  of  necessity  much  earlier  than  to  most 
girls,  and  to-night,  as  Tom  took  her  through  a  succession  of 
narrow  streets  and  dirty  courts,  misery,  and  vice,  and  hopeless 
degradation  met  her  on  every  side.  Swarms  of  filthy  little 
children  wrangled  and  fought  in  the  gutters,  drunken  women 


ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED.  115 

shouted  foul  language  at  one  another — every  where  was  wicked- 
ness— everywhere  want. 

Her  heart  felt  as  if  it  would  break.  What  was  to  reach 
tliese  poor,  miserable  fellow-creatures  of  hers'?  Who  was  to 
raise  them  out  of  their  horrible  plight  1  The  coarse  distortion 
and  the  narrow  contraction  of  Christ's  teaching  which  she  had 
just  heard,  offered  no  remedy  for  this  evil.  Nor  could  she 
think  that  secularism  would  reach  these.  To  understand 
secularism  you  need  a  fair  share  of  intellect, — what  intellect 
would  these  poor  creatures  have?  Why,  you  might  talk  for 
ever  of  the  '  good  of  humanity,'  and  '  the  duty  of  promoting 
the  general  good,'  and  they  would  not  so  much  as  grasp  the 
idea  of  what  'good,'  was — they  would  sink  back  to  their  animal- 
like state. 

Instinctively  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  Radical  Reformer 
who,  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  had  lived  among  people  just  as 
wicked,  just  as  wretched.  How  had  He  worked'?  What  had  He 
done  ?  All  through  His  words  and  actions  had  sounded  the  one 
key-note.  '  Your  Father.'  Always  He  had  led  them  to  look  up 
to  a  perfect  Being  who  loved  them,  who  was  present  with  them. 

Was  it  possible  that  if  Christians  had  indeed  followed  their 
Leader  and  not  obscured  His  teaching  with  hideous  accretions 
of  doctrine  which  He  had  assuredly  never  taught — was  it 
possible  that  the  Christ-gospel  in  its  original  simplicity  woiild 
indeed  be  the  remedy  for  all  evil  1 

They  were  coming  into  broader  thoroughfares  now.  A 
wailing  child's  voice  fell  on  her  ear.  A  small  crowd  of  dis- 
reputable idlers  were  hanging  round  the  closed  doors  of  a  public- 
house,  waiting  eagerly  for  the  opening  which  Avould  take  place 
at  the  close  of  service-time.  The  wailing  child's  voice  grew 
more  and  more  piteous.  Erica  saw  that  it  came  from  a  poor 
little  half-clad  creature  of  three  years  old  who  was  clinging  -to 
the  skirts  of  a  miserable-looking  woman  with  a  shawl  thrown 
over  her  head.  Just  as  she  drew  near,  the  woman,  with  a 
fearful  oath,  tried  to  shake  herself  free  of  the  child  ;  then,  with 
up-lifted  arm,  was  about  to  deal  it  a  heaAy  blow  when  Erica 
caught  her  hand  as  it  descended,  and  held  it  fast  in  both  her 
hands. 

'  Don't  hurt  him,'  she  said,  'please,  don't  hurt  him.' 

She  looked  into  the  prematurely  wrinkled  face,  into  the 
half-dim  eyes  ;  she  held  the  hand  fast  with  a  pressure  not  of 
force  but  of  entreaty.  Then  they  passed  on,  the  bystanders 
shouting  out  the  derisive  chorus  of  'Come  to  Jesus!'  Avith 
which  London  roughs  delight  in  mocking  any  passenger  whom 


146  ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED. 

they  suspect  of  religious  tendencies.  In  all  her  sadness  Erica 
could  not  help  smiling  to  herself.  That  she,  an  atheist,  Luke 
Kaebum's  daughter,  sliould  be  hooted  at  as  a  follower  of  Jesus ! 

In  the  meantime  the  woman  she  had  spoken  to  stood  still 
staring  after  her.  If  an  angel  had  suddenly  appeared  to  her, 
she  could  not  have  been  more  startled.  A  human  hand  had 
given  her  coarse,  guilty,  ti'cmbling  hand  such  a  living  pressure 
as  it  had  never  before  received ;  a  pure,  loving  face  had  looked 
at  licr ;  a  voice,  which  was  trembling  with  earnestness  and 
full  of  the  pathos  of  restrained  tears,  had  pleaded  with  her  for 
her  own  child.  The  woman's  dormant  motherhood  sprang  into 
life.  Yes,  he  was  her  own  child  after  all.  She  did  not  really 
want  to  hurt  him,  but  a  sort  of  demon  was  inside  her,  the 
demon  of  drink,  and  sometimes  it  made  her  almost  mad.  She 
looked  down  now  with  love-cleared  eyes  at  the  little  crying 
child  who  still  clung  to  her  ragged  skirt.  She  stooped  and 
picked  him  up,  and  wrapped  a  bit  of  her  shawl  round  him. 
Presently,  after  a  fearful  struggle,  she  turned  away  from  the 
public-house  and  carried  the  child  home  to  bed. 

The  jeering  chorus  was  soon  checked,  for  the  shutters  were 
taken  down,  and  the  doors  thrown  wide,  and  light,  and  cheer- 
fulness, and  shelter,  and  the  drink  they  were  all  craving  for 
were  temptingly  displayed  to  draw  in  the  w'aiting  idlers. 

But  the  woman  had  gone  liome,  and  one  rather  surly-looking 
man  still  leant  against  the  w^all  looking  up  the  street  where  Tom 
and  Erica  had  disappeared. 

'  Bio  wed  if  that  ain't  a  bit  of  pluck!'  he  said  to  himself, 
and  therewith  fell  into  a  reverie. 

Tom  talked  of  temperance  work,  about  which  he  was  very 
eager,  all  the  way  to  Guilford  Terrace.  Erica,  on  reaching 
home,  went  at  once  to  her  father's  room.  She  found  him 
propped  up  with  pillows  in  his  arm  chair ;  he  was  still  only 
well  enough  to  attempt  the  lightest  of  light  literature,  and  was 
looking  at  some  old  volumes  of  Punch  which  the  Osmonds  had 
sent  across. 

'You  look  tired,  Eric  !'  he  exclaimed.  'Was  there  a  good 
attendance  V 

'  Very,'  she  replied,  but  so  much  less  brightly  than  usual 
that  Raeburn  at  once  divined  that  something  had  annoyed  her. 

'  Was  Mr.  Masterman  dull  V 

'  Not  dull,'  she  replied,  hesitatingly.  Then,  w  ith  more  than 
her  usual  vehemence,  '  Father,  I  can't  endure  liim  !  I  wish  we 
didn't  have  such  men  on  our  side  !  lie  is  so  flippant,  so 
vul-'ar  !' 


ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED.  147 

*  Of  course  he  never  was  a  model  of  refinement,'  said  Rae- 
bnrn,  '  but  he  is  effective — very  effective.  It  is  impossible  that 
you  should  like  his  style ;  he  is,  compared  with  you,  what  a 
theatrical  poster  is  to  a  delicate  tete-de-Greuze.  How  did  he 
specially  offend  you  to-night  V 

'  It  was  all  hateful  from  the  very  beginning,'  said  Erica. 
*  And  sprinkled  all  through  with  doubtful  jests  which  of  course 
pleased  the  people.  One  despicable  one  about  the  Entry  into 
Jerusalem,  which  I  believe  he  must  have  got  from  Strauss.  I'm 
sure  Strauss  quotes  it.' 

'  You  see  what  displeases  an  educated  mind,  wins  a  rough, 
uncultured  one.  We  may  not  altogether  like  it,  but  we  must 
put  up  with  it.  We  need  our  Moodys  and  Sankeys  as  well  as 
the  Christians.' 

'  But,  father,  he  seems  to  me  so  unfair.' 

Raeburn  looked  grave. 

'My  dear,'  he  said,  after  a  minutes  thought,  'you  are  not 
in  the  least  bound  to  go  to  hear  Mr.  Masterman  again  unless 
you  like.  But  remember  this,  Eric,  we  are  only  a  struggling 
minority,  and  let  me  quote  to  you  one  of  our  Scottish  pro- 
verbs— "Hawks  shouldna  pick  out  hawks'  een."  You  are  still 
a  hawk,  are  you  not]' 

'  Of  course,'  she  said,  earnestly. 

'  Well,  then,  be  leal  to  your  brother  hawks. 

A  cloud  of  perplexed  thought  stole  over  Erica's  face.  Rae- 
burn noted  it  and  did  his  best  to  divert  her  attention. 

'  Come,'  he  said  '  let  vis  have  a  chapter  of  Mark  Twain  to 
enliven  us.' 

But  even  Mark  Twain  was  inadequate  to  check  the  thought- 
struggle  which  had  begun  in  Erica's  brain.  Desperate  earnest- 
ness would  not  be  conquered  even  by  the  most  delightful  of  all 
humorous  fiction. 

During  the  next  few  days  this  thought-struggle  raged.  So 
great  was  Erica's  fear  of  being  biassed  either  one  way  or  the 
other  that  she  would  not  even  hint  at  her  perplexity  either  to 
her  father  or  to  Charles  Osmond.  And  now  the  actual  thorough- 
ness of  her  character  seemed  a  hindrance. 

She  had  imagination,  quick  perception  of  the  true  and 
beautiful,  and  an  immense  amount  of  steady  common-sense. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  almost  as  keen  and  quite  as  slow  of 
conviction  as  her  father.  Honestly  dreading  to  allow  her 
poetic  faculty  due  play,  she  kept  her  imagination  rigidly  within 
the  narrowest  bounds.  She  was  thus  honestly  handicapped  in 
the  race ;  the  honesty  was,  however,  a  little  mistaken  and  one- 


148  ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED. 

sided,  for  not  tlie  most  vivid  imagination  could  be  considered 
as  a  set-oflf"  to  the  great,  the  incalculable  counter-influence  of 
her  whole  education  and  surroundings.  How  she  got  through 
that  black  struggle  was  sometimes  a  mvstery  to  her.  At  last 
one  evening,  when  the  load  had  grown  intolerable,  she  shut 
herself  into  her  own  room,  and,  forgetful  of  all  her  logical 
arguments,  spoke  to  the  unknown  God.  Her  hopelessness,  her 
desperation,  drove  her  as  a  last  resource  to  cry  to  the  possibly 
Existent. 

She  stood  by  the  open  window  of  her  little  room,  with  her 
arms  on  the  window-sill,  looking  out  into  the  summer  night, 
just  as  years  before  she  had  stood  when  making  up  her  mind 
to  exile  and  sacrifice.  Then  the  wintry  heavens  had  been 
blacker  and  the  stars  brighter,  now  both  sky  and  stars  were 
dimmer  because  more  light.  Over  the  roofs  of  the  Guilford 
Square  houses  she  could  see  Charles'  Wain  and  the  Pole  star, 
but  only  faintly. 

'God  !'  she  cried,  'I  have  no  reason  to  think  that  Thou  art, 
except  that  there  is  such  fearful  need  of  Thee.  I  can  see  no  single 
proof  in  the  world  that  Thou  art  here.  But  if  what  Christ  said 
was  true,  then  Thou  must  care  that  I  should  know  Thee,  for  I 
must  be  Thy  child.  Oh,  God,  if  Thou  art — oh.  Father,  if  Thou 
art, — help  us  to  know  Thee  !  show  us  what  is  true  !' 

She  waited  and  waited,  hoping  for  some  sort  of  answer,  somo 
thought,  some  conviction.  But  she  found,  as  many  have  found 
before  her,  that  '  the  heavens  were  as  brass.' 

'Of  course  it  was  no  use!'  she  exclaimed,  impatiently,  yet 
with  a  blankness  of  disappointment  which  in  itself  proved  the 
reality  of  her  expectations. 

Just  then  she  heard  Tom's  voice  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
calling  her;  it  seemed  like  the  seal  to  her  impatient  '  of  course.' 
There  was  no  Unseen,  no  Eternal — of  course  not  !  But  there 
was  a  busy  ever\-day  life  to  be  lived. 

'  All  right,'  she  returned,  impatiently,  to  Tom's  repeated 
calls  ;  'don't  make  such  a  noise  or  else  you'll  disturb  father  !' 

'  He  is  wide  awake,'  said  Tom,  '  and  talking  to  the  Professor. 
Just  look  here,  I  couldn't  help  fetching  you  down — did  you 
ever  see  such  a  speech  in  your  life  !  A  regular  brick  he  must 
be!' 

He  held  an  evening  paper  in  his  hand.  Erica  remembered 
that  the  debate  was  to  be  on  a  question  affecting  all  free- 
thinkers. During  the  discussion  of  this,  some  one  had  intro- 
duced a  reference  to  the  Hyde  Park  meeting  and  to  Mr. 
Puxcbiun,  and  had  been  cai-eful  not  to  lose  the  opportunity  of 


ANSWERED  OR  tTN-AXSWERED.  149 

making  a  spiteful  and  misleading  remark  about  the  apostle  of 
atheism,  Tom  hm'ried  her  throvigh  this,  however,  to  the  speech 
that  followod  it. 

'  Wait  a  minute,'  she  said.  '  "Who  is  Mr.  Farrant  1  I  never 
heard  of  him  before.' 

'  Member  for  Greyshot,  elected  last  spring,  don't  you  re- 
member ]  One  of  the  bye-elections.  Licked  the  Tories  all  to 
fits.  This  is  his  maiden  speech,  and  that  makes  it  all  the  more 
plucky  of  him  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  our  defence.  Here  ! 
let  me  read  it  to  you,' 

With  the  force  of  one  who  is  fired  with  a  new  and  hearty  ad- 
miration, he  read  the  report.  The  speech  was  undoubtedly 
a  fine  one ;  it  was  a  grand  protest  against  intolerance,  a  plea 
for  justice.  The  speaker  had  not  hesitated  for  an  instant  to 
raise  his  voice  in  behalf  of  a  very  unpopular  cause,  and  his 
generous  words,  even  when  read  through  the  medium  of  an  in- 
different newspaper  report,  awoke  a  strange  thrill  in  Erica's 
heart.  The  utter  disregard  of  self,  the  nobility  of  the  whole 
speech  struck  her  immensely.  The  man  who  had  dared  to 
stand  up  for  the  first  time  in  Parliament  and  speak  thus,  must 
be  one  in  a  thousand.  Presently  came  the  most  daring  and 
disinterested  touch  of  all. 

'  The  honourable  member  for  Piilchester  made  what  I  can 
not  but  regard  as  a  most  misleading  and  unnecessary  remark 
with  reference  to  the  recent  occurrence  in  Hyde  Park,  and  to 
Mr.  KaebruTi.  I  listened  to  it  with  pain,  for,  if  there  can  be 
degrees  in  the  absolute  evil  of  injustice  and  lack  of  charity,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  highest  degree  is  reached  in  that  uncharita- 
bleness  which  tries  to  blacken  the  character  of  an  opponent. 
Since  the  subject  has  been  introduced,  the  House  will,  I 
hope,  bear  with  me  if  for  the  sake  of  justice  I  for  a  moment 
allude  to  a  personal  matter.  Some  years  ago  I  myself  was  an 
atheist,  and  I  can  only  say  that,  speaking  now  from  the  directly 
opposite  standpoint,  I  can  still  look  back  and  thank  Mr,  Raebum 
most  heartily  for  the  good  service  he  did  me.  He  was  the  first 
man  who  ever  showed  me,  by  words  and  example  combined, 
that  life  is  only  noble  when  lived  for  the  race.  The  statement 
made  by  the  honourable  member  for  Piilchester  seems  to  me  as 
incoiTect  as  it  was  uncalled  for.  Surely  this  assembly  will 
best  prove  its  high  character  not  by  loixd  religious  protestations, 
not  by  supporting  a  narrow,  Pharisaical  measure,  but  by  im- 
partiality, by  perfect  justice,  by  the  manifesiation  in  deed  and 
word  of  that  broad-hearted  charity,  that  universal  brotherliuess, 
which  alone  deserves  the  name  of  Cliristianity.' 


150  ANSWERED  OB  UNANSWERED. 

The  manifestation  of  the  speaker's  generosity  and  universal 
brotlierliness  came  like  a  li.irht  to  Erica's  darkness.  It  did  nut 
end  her  straggle,  but  it  did  end  her  dcsspair.  A  faint,  inde- 
finable hope  rose  in  her  heart. 

Mr.  Farrant's  maiden  speech  made  a  considerable  stir ;  it 
met  with  some  praise  and  much  blame.  Erica  learnt  from  one 
of  the  papers  that  he  was  Mr.  Donovan  Farrant,  and  at  once 
felt  convinced  that  he  was  the  '  Donovan  '  whom  both  Charles 
Osmond  and  Brian  had  mentioned  to  her.  She  seemed  to 
know  a  good  deal  about  him.  Probably  they  had  never  told 
her  his  surname  because  they  knew  that  some  day  he  would  be 
a  public  character.  AVith  instinctive  delicacy  she  refrained 
from  making  any  reference  to  his  speech,  or  any  inquiry  as  to 
his  identity  Avith  the  '  Donovan '  of  whose  inner  life  she  had 
heard.  Very  soon  after  that,  too,  she  went  down  to  the  sea- 
side with  her  father,  and  when  they  came  back  to  town  the 
Osmonds  had  gone  abroad,  so  it  was  not  until  the  autumn  that 
they  again  met. 

Her  stay  at  Codrington  wonderfully  refreshed  her  ;  it  was 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  taken  a  thorough  holiday, 
with  change  of  scene  and  restful  idleness  to  complete  it.  The 
time  was  outwardly  uneventful  enough,  but  her  father  grew 
strong  in  body  and  she  grew  strong  in  mnid. 

One  absurd  little  incident  she  often  laughed  over  afterwards. 
It  happened  that  in  the  On-looker  there  was  a  qiiotation  from 
some  unnamed  mediaeval  writer ;  she  and  her  father  had  a  dis- 
cussion as  to  whom  it  could  be,  Raebum  maintaining  that  it 
was  Thomas  k  Kempis,  Wishing  to  verify  it,  Erica  went  to  a 
bookseller's  and  asked  for  the  Imitation  of  Christ.  A  rather 
prim-looking  dame  presided  behind  the  counter. 

'We  haven't  that  book,  miss,' she  said,  'it's  quite  out  of 
fashion  now.' 

'  I  agree  with  you,'  said  Erica,  greatly  amused.  '  It  must 
be  quite  out  of  fashion,  for  I  scarcely  know  half-a-dozen  people 
who  practise  it.' 

However,  a  second  shop  appeared  to  think  difTcrently, 
for  it  had  Thomas  a  Kempis  in  every  conceivable  size,  shape, 
and  binding.  Erica  bought  a  little  sixpenny  copy  and  went 
back  to  the  beach,  where  she  made  her  father  laugh  over  her 
story. 

Tliey  verified  the  quotation,  and  by-and-by  Erica  began  to 
read  the  book.  On  the  very  first  page  she  came  to  words 
which  made  her  pause  and  relapse  into  a  deep  reverie. 

'But   he    who   would    fully  and  feelingly  understand  the 


ANSWERED  OR  UNANSWERED.  151 

iv'ords  of  Christ,  must  study  to  make  his  whole  life  conformable 
to  that  of  Christ.' 

The  thought  linked  itself  in  her  mind  with  some  words  of 
John  Stuart  Mill's  which  she  had  hoard  quoted  till  she  was 
almost  weary  of  them. 

'  Nor  even  now  would  it  be  easy,  even  for  an  unbeliever,  to 
find  a  better  translation  for  the  rule  of  virtue  from  the  abstract 
into  the  concrete,  than  to  endeavour  so  to  live  that  Christ 
would  approve  our  life.' 

While  she  was  still  musing,  a  sound  of  piteous  crying  at- 
tracted her  notice.  Looking  up  she  saw  a  tiny  child  wandering 
along  the  beach,  trailing  a  wooden  spade  after  her,  and  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  In  a  moment  Erica  was  beside 
her,  coaxing  and  consoling,  but  at  last,  finding  it  impossible  to 
draw  forth  an  intelligible  word  from  the  sobs  and  tears,  she  took 
the  little  thing  in  her  arms  and  carried  her  to  her  father. 
Raeburn  was  a  great  child-lover,  and  had  a  habit  of  carrying 
goodies  in  his  pocket,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  the 
children  with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact.  He  produced 
a  bit  of  butter-scotch,  which  restored  the  small  maiden's 
serenity  for   a   minute. 

'  She  must  have  lost  her  way,'  he  said,  glancing  from  the 
lovely  little  tear-stained  face  to  the  thinly  shod  feet  and  un- 
gloved hands  of  the  little  one.  The  butter-scotch  had  won  her 
heart.     Presently  she  volunteered  a  remark, 

'  Dolly  putted  on  her  own  hat.  Dolly  wanted  to  dig  all 
alone.     Dolly  Ian  away.' 

'  Where  is  your  home  1 '    asked  Erica. 

*  Me  don't  know  !  me  don't  know  ! '  ci'ied  Dolly,  bursting 
into  tears  again,  and  hiding  her  face  on  Raeburn's  coat. 
'  Father  !   father,  Dolly  wants   father.' 

'  We  will  come  and  look  for  him,'  said  Erica,  '  but  you  must 
stop  crying,  and  you  know  your  father  will  be  sure  to  come  and 
look  for  you.' 

At  this  the  little  one  checked  her  tears,  and  looked  up  as  if 
excepting  to  see  him  close  by. 

'  He  isn't  there,'  she  said,  piteously. 

*  Come  and  let  us  look  for  him,'  said  Erica. 

Dolly  jumped  up,  thrust  her  little  hand  into  Erica's,  and 
toiled  up  the  steep  beach.  They  had  reached  the  road,  and 
Erica  paused  for  a  moment,  wondering  which  du-ection  they 
had  better  take,  when  a  voice  behind  her  made  her  start. 

'  Why,  Dorothy — little  one — we've  been  hunting  for  you 
everywhere !' 


152  AT  THE  MUSEUM. 

Doll}-  let  go  Erica's  hainl,  und  with  a  glad  ciy  rushed  into 
the  arms  of  a  tall,  dark,  rather  foreign-looking  man,  who 
caught  her  np  and  held  her  closely. 

He  turned  to  Erica  and  thanked  her  very  Avarml}^  for  her 
help.     Erica  thought  his  face  the  noblest  she  had  ever  seen. 


CHAPTEPt    XIX. 

AT  TITF.  MUSEUM. 

Methougbt  I  heard  one  calling,  '  Child,' 

And  1  replied,  '  My  Lord  ! ' 

Geoege  Herbert. 

A  FAVOURITE  pastime  with  country  children  is  to  watch  the 
gradual  gi'owth  of  the  acorn  into  the  oak-tree.  They  will 
suspend  the  acorn  in  a  glass  of  water  and  watch  the  slow  pro- 
gress during  long  months.  First  one  tiny  white  thread  is  put 
forth,  then  another,  until  at  length  the  glass  is  almost  filled  with 
a  tangle  of  white  fibres,  a  sturdy  little  stem  raises  itself  up, 
and  the  baby  tree,  if  it  is  to  live,  must  be  at  once  transplanted 
into  good  soil.  The  process  may  be  botanically  interesting, 
but  there  is  something  a  little  sickly  about  it,  too — there  is  a 
feeling  that,  after  all,  the  aconi  would  havo  done  better  in  its 
natural  ground  hidden  away  in  darkness. 

And,  if  we  have  this  feeling  with  regard  to  vegetable 
growth,  how  much  more  with  regard  to  spiritual  growth  !  To 
attempt  to  set  up  the  gradually  awakening  spirit  in  an 
apparatus  where  it  might  be  the  observed  of  all  observers 
would  be  at  once  repulsive  and  presumptuous.  Happily,  it  is 
impossible.  We  may  trace  influences  and  suggestions,  just  as 
we  may  note  the  rain  or  drought,  the  heat  or  cold  that  affect 
vegetable  growth,  but  the  actual  birth  is  ever  hidden. 

To  attempt  even  to  shadov;  forth  Erica's  growth  during  the 
next  year  would  be  worse  than  presumptuous.  As  to  her  out- 
ward life  it  was  not  greatly  changed,  only  intensified,  October 
always  began  their  busiest  six  months.  There  was  the  night 
school  at  which  she  was  able  to  work  again  indefatigably. 
There  were  lectures  to  be  attended.  Above  all,  there  was  an 
ever  increasing  amount  of  woik  to  be  done  for  her  father.  In 
all  the  positive  and  constructive  side  of  secidarism,  in  all  the 
efforts  made  by  it  to  better  humanity,  she  took  an  enthusiastic 
share.     Naturally  she  did  not  set  so  much  of  Charles  Osmond 


AT  THE  MUSEUM.  153 

now  that  she  was  strong  agair..  In  the  press  of  business,  in 
the  hard,  everyday  life  there  was  httle  time  for  discussion. 
They  met  frequently,  but  never  for  one  of  their  long  tete-a-tetes. 
Perhaps  Erica  purposely  avoided  them.  She  was  strangely 
difterent  now  from  the  little  impetuous  girl  who  had  come 
to  his  study  years  ago,  trembling  with  anger  at  the  Lady 
Superintendent's  insult.  Insults  had  since  then,  alas,  be- 
come so  familiar  to  her,  that  she  had  acquired  a  sort  of  patient 
dignity  of  endurance,  infinitely  sad  to  watch  in  such  a  young 
girl. 

One  morning  in  early  June,  just  a  year  after  the  memorable 
Hyde  Park  meeting,  Charles  Osmond  happened  to  be  returning 
from  the  death-bed  of  one  of  his  parishoners  when,  at  the 
corner  of  Guilford  Square,  he  met  Erica.  It  might  have  been 
in  part  the  contrast  with  the  sad  and  painful  scene  he  had  just 
quitted,  but  he  thought  she  had  never  before  looked  so 
beautiful.  Her  face  seemed  to  have  taken  to  itself  the  fresh- 
ness and  the  glow  of  the  summer  morning. 

'  You  are  early  abroad,'  he  said,  feeling  older  and  grayer 
and  mi  ore  tired  than  ever  as  he  paused  to  speak  to  her. 

'  I  am  off  to  the  museum  to  read,'  she  said,  '  I  like  to  get 
there  by  nine,  then  you  don't  have  to  wait  such  an  age  for 
your  books;    I  can't  bear  ■waiting.' 
•What  are  you  at  work  upon  now?' 

'  Oh,  to-day  for  the  last  time  I  am  going  to  hunt  up  par- 
ticulars about  Livingstone.  Hazeldine  was  very  anxious  that  a 
sC;i-ies  of  papers  on  his  life  should  be  written  for  our  people. 
What  a  grand  fellow  he  was  !' 

*  I  heard  a  characteristic  anecdote  of  him  the  other  day,' 
said  Charles  Osmond.  '  He  was  walking  beside  one  of  the 
African  lakes  which  he  had  discovered,  when  suddenly  there 
dawned  on  him  a  new  meaning  to  long  familiar  words,  "  The 
blood  of  Christ!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  must  be  Charity! 
The  blood  of  Christ — that  must  be  Charity  !"  A  beautiful 
thought,  too  seldom  practically  taught.' 

Erica  looked  graA'e, 

'  Characteristic,  certainly,  of  his  broad-heartcdness,  but  I 
don't  think  that  anecdote  will  do  for  the  readers  of  the /cfo?- 
Brealcer.''  Then,  looking  up  at  Charles  Osmond,  she  added,  in 
a  ratiier  lower  tone,  '  Do  you  know,  I  had  no  idea  Avhen  I 
began  Avhat  a  difficult  task  I  had  got,  I  thought  in  such  an 
active  life  as  that  thei'e  would  be  little  difficulty  in  keeping  the 
religious  part  away  from  the  secular,  but  it  is  wonderful  how 
Livingstone  contrives  to  mix  them  up.' 


154  AT  THE  MUSLUM. 

'  You  see,  if  Christianity  be  true,  it  must,  as  you  say,  "  mix 
up  "  with  everything.  There  should  be  no  rigid  distinction  be- 
tween secular  and  religious,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 

'  If  it  is  true,'  said  Eiica,  suddenly,  and  with  seeming  irrele- 
vance, '  then  sooner  or  later  we  must  learn  it  to  be  so.  Trutli 
vuist  win  in  the  end.  But  it  is  worse  to  wait  for  perfect 
certainty  than  for  books  at  the  museum  !'  she  added,  laughing. 
'  It  is  five  minutes  to  nine — I  shall  be  late.' 

Charles  Osmond  walked  home  thoughtfully;  the  meeting 
had  somehow  cheered  him. 

'Absolute  conviction  that  truth  must  out — that  truth  must 
make  itself  perceptible  !  I've  not  often  come  across  a  more 
beautiful  faith  than  tliat.  Yes,  little  Undine,  right  you  are ! 
"  Ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  tlie  truth  shall  make  you  free." 
Here  or  there,  here  or  there — 

"  All  things  come  round  to  Lira  who  will  but  wait." 

Thci-e's  one  for  yourself,  Charles  Osmond !  None  of  your 
liurrying  and  meddling  now,  old  man  !  you've  just  got  to  leave 
it  to  your  betters.' 

Soliloquising  after  this  fashion  he  reached  home,  and  was 
not  soiTy  to  find  his  breakfast  awaiting  him,  for  he  had  been  up 
the  greater  part  of  the  night. 

The  great  domed  library  of  the  British  Museum  had  be- 
come very  homelike  to  Erica,  it  was  her  ideal  of  comfort ;  she 
went  there  whenever  she  wanted  quiet,  for  in  the  small  and 
crowded  lodgings  she  could  never  be  secure  from  inten-uptions, 
and  interruptions  resulted  in  bad  work.  There  was  something, 
too,  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  museum  which  seemed  to  help 
her.  She  liked  the  perfect  stillness,  she  liked  the  presence  of 
all  the  books.  Above  all,  too,  she  liked  the  consciousness  of 
possession.  There  was  no  narrow  exclusiveness  about  this 
place,  no  one  could  look  askance  at  her  here.  The  place  be- 
longed to  the  people,  and  therefore  belonged  to  her;  she — 
heretic  and  atheist  as  she  was — had  as  much  share  in  the 
ownei"ship  as  the  highest  in  the  land.  She  had  her  own  pecu- 
liar nook  over  by  the  encyclopedias,  and,  being  always  an 
early  comer,  seldom  failed  to  secure  her  own  particular  chair 
and  desk. 

On  this  morning  slie  took  her  place,  as  she  had  done  hun- 
dreds of  times  before,  and  was  soon  hard  at  work.  She  was 
finishing  her  last  paper  on  Livingstone  when  a  book  she  had 
ordered  was  deposited  on  lier  desk  by  one  of  the  noiseless 
attendants.     She  wanted  it  to  verify  cue  or  two  dates,  and  she 


AT  THE  MUSEUM,  155 

half  thought  she  would  try  to  hunt  up  Charles  Osmond's 
anecdote.  In  order  to  write  her  series  of  papers,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  study  the  character  of  the  great  explorer  pretty 
thoroughl}'.  She  had  always  been  able  to  see  the  nobility  even 
of  those  differing  most  widely  from  herself  in  point  of  creed, 
and  the  great  beauty  of  Livingstone's  character  had  impressed 
her  very  much.  To-day  she  happened  to  open  on  an  entry  in 
his  journal  which  seemed  particularly  characteristic  of  the  man. 
He  was  in  gi-eat  danger  from  the  hostile  tribes  at  the  union  of 
the  Zambesi  and  Loangwa,  and  there  was  something  about 
his  spontaneous  utterance  which  appealed  very  strongly  to 
Erica. 

'  Felt  much  turmoil  of  spirit  in  view  of  having  all  my  plans 
for  the  welfare  of  this  great  region  and  teeming  population 
knocked  on  the  head  by  savages  to-morrow.  But  1  read  that 
Jesus  came  and  said,  "  All  power  is  given  unto  me  in  heaven 
and  in  earth.  Go  ye  therefore  and  teach  all  nations,  and  lo  !  I 
am  with  you  always,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world."  It  is  the 
word  of  a  gentlemaTi  of  the  most  sacred  and  strictest  honour, 
and  there's  an  end  on't.  I  will  not  cross  furtively  by  night  as 
I  intended.  .  .  .  Nay,  verily,  I  shall  take  observations  for 
latitude  and  longitude  to-night,  though  they  may  be  the  last.' 

The  courage,  the  daring,  the  perseverance,  the  intense 
faith  of  the  man  shone  out  in  these  sentences.  Was  it  indeed 
a  delusion,  such  practical  faith  as  that. 

Blackness  of  darkness  seemed  to  hem  her  in.  She 
stniggled  through  it  once  more  by  the  one  gleam  of  certainty 
which  had  come  to  her  in  the  past  year.  Truth  must  be  self- 
revealing.  Sooner  or  later,  if  she  were  honest,  if  she  did  not 
shut  her  mind  deliberately  up  with  the  assurance, — '  You  have 
thought  out  these  matters  fully  and  fairly ;  enough  !  let  us 
now  rest  content,' — if  she  were  indeed  a  true  '  Fi'eethinker,'  she 
must  know  !  And  even  as  that  conviction  returned  to  her  the 
words, half-quaint,  half-pathetic,  came  to  her  mind, — 'It  is  the 
word  of  a  gentleman  of  the  most  sacred  and  sti'ictest  honour, 
and  there's  an  end  on't.' 

Yes,  there  would  '  be  an  end  on't,'  if  she  could  feel  sure  th;;t 
he,  too,  was  not  deluded  ! 

She  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book,  and  towards  the  end 
found  a  copy  of  the  inscription  on  Livingstone's  tomb.  Her 
eye  fell  on  the  words,  '  And  other  sheep  I  have  which  are  not 
of  this  fold ;  them  also  I  must  bi"ing,  and  they  shall  hear  My 
voice.' 

Somehow   the    mention  of  the  lost  sheep   brought  to  her 


156  AT  THE  MUSEUM. 

mind  the  little  lost  child  on  the  beach  at  Codrington — Dolly, 
who  had  '  putted  on '  her  own  hat,  who  had  wanted  to  be  in- 
dependent, and  to  dig  by  herself.  She  had  run  away  from 
home,  and  could  not  find  the  w?.y  back.  AVhat  a  steep  climb 
they  had  had  up  the  beach  ! — how  the  little  tiling's  tiny  feet 
had  slipped  and  stumbled  over  rhe  stones,  and  just  when  they 
were  most  perplexed,  the  father  had  found  them  ! 

Exactly  how  it  all  came  to  her,  Erica  never  knew,  nor 
could  she  ever  put  into  w(rdy  the  story  of  the  next  few 
moments.  ^Vhen  '  God's  great  sun-rise '  finds  us  out,  we  have 
need  of  something  higher  than  hixman  speech — there  are  no 
words  for  it.  At  the  utmost  she  could  only  say  that  it  was 
like  coming  out  of  the  twilight,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
immersed  in  a  great  wave  of  all  pervading  light. 

All  in  a  moment  the  Christ  who  had  been  to  her  merely  a 
noble  character  of  ancient  history  seemed  to  become  to  her  the 
most  real  and  living  of  all  livmg  realities.  Even  her  own 
existence  seemed  to  fade  intc-  a  vague  and  misty  shadow  in 
comparison  with  the  intensity  of  this  new  consciousness — this 
conviction  of  His  being  wh'ch  surroiuidcd  her — which  she 
knew,  indeed,  to  be  'way,  ana  truth,  and  life.'  '  Tlicy  shall 
hear  My  voice.'  In  the  silence  of  waiting,  in  the  faithfulness 
of  lioncst  searching.  Erica  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  heard  it. 
Yes,  she  had  been  right — truth  was  self-revealing.  A  few 
minutes  ago  these  words  had  been  to  her  an  unfulfilled,  a  vain 
promise — the  speaker,  broad-hearted  and  loving  as  he  was,  had 
doubtless  been  deluded.  But  now  the  voice  spoke  to  her, 
called  her  by  name,  told  her  what  she  wanted. 

'  Dolly '  became  to  her  a  p.irable  of  life.  She  had  been  like 
that  little  child  ;  for  years  and  years  she  had  been  toiling  up 
over  rough  stones  and  slippd'y  pebbles,  but  at  last  she  had 
heard  the  voice.     Was  this  the  coming  to  the  Father  ] 

That  which  often  appearr,  sudden  and  unaccountable  is,  if 
we  did  but  know  it,  a  slow,  beautifid  evolution.  It  was  now- 
very  nearly  seven  years  since  the  autumn  afternoon  when  the 
man,  '  too  nice  to  be  a  clergyman,'  and  '  not  a  bit  like  a 
Chri-stian,'  had  come  to  Erica's  home,  had  shown  her  that  at 
least  one  of  them  practised  the  xiniversal  bi'othcrliness  which 
almost  all  preached.  It  was  nearly  seven  years  since  words  of 
absolute  conviction,  words  of  lo\e  and  power,  had  first  sounded 
forth  from  Christian  lips  in  her  father's  lecture-hall,  and  had 
awidvcned  in  her  mind  that  miserably  uncomfortable  question 
— 'snpj)osing  Christianity  should  be  truel ' 

All  the  most  beautiful  iniiuonccs  are  quiet;  only  the  do- 


AT  TIIK  MUSEUM.  157 

slructive  agencies,  the  stormj'  wiud,  the  heavy  raiu  and  hail, 
are  noisy.  Love  of  the  deepest  sort  is  "wordless,  the  sunshine 
steals  down  silently,  the  dew  falls  noiselessly,  and  the  com- 
mnnion  of  spirit  with  spirit  is  calmer  and  quieter  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world — quiet  as  the  spontaneous  turning  of 
the  sunflower  to  "^le  sun  when  the  heavy  clouds  have  passed 
away,  and  the  light  and  warmth  reveal  themselves.  The  sub- 
dued rustle  of  leaves,  the  hushed  footsteps  sounded  as  usual  in 
the  great  library,  but  Erica  WiS  oeyoud  the  perception  of  either 
place  or  time. 

Presently  she  was  recalled  by  the  arrival  of  another 
student,  who  took  the  chair  next  to  hers — a  little  deformed 
man,  with  a  face  which  looked  prematurely  old,  and  sad, 
restless  eyes.  A  few  hours  before  she  would  have  regarded 
him  with  a  sort  of  shuddering  compassion  ;  now  with  the  com- 
passion there  came  to  her  the  thought  of  compensation  which 
even  here  and  now  might  make  the  poor  fellow  happy.  Was 
he  not  immortal  1  Might  he  not  here  and  now  learn  what  she 
had  just  learnt,  gain  that  unspeakable  joy  1  and  might  not  the 
knowledge  go  on  growing  and  increasing  for  ever  1  She  took 
up  her  pen  once  more,  verified  the  dates,  rolled  up  her  manu- 
script, and,  with  one  look  at  Livingstone's  journal,  returned  it 
to  the  clerk  and  left  the  library. 

It  was  like  coming  into  a  new  world ;  even  dingy  Blooms- 
bury  seemed  beautiful.  Her  Tace  was  so  bright,  so  like  the 
face  of  a  happy  child,  that  more  than  one  passer-by  was  startled 
by  it,  lifted  for  a  moment  fiom  sordid  cares  into  a  purer 
.atmosphere.  She  felt  a  longing  to  speak  to  some  one  who 
would  understand  her  new-  happiness.  She  had  reached  Guil- 
ford Square,  and  looking  doubtfully  across  to  the  Osmonds' 
house.  They  would  understand !  But  no — she  must  tell  her 
father  first.  And  then,  with  a  fearful  pang,  she  realised  what 
her  new  conviction  meant.  It  meant  bringing  the  sword  into 
her  father's  house  ;  it  meant  griocing  him  with  a  life-long  grief; 
it  meant  leaving  the  persecuted  minority,  and  going  over  to 
the  triumphant  majority  ;  it  "Jieant  unmitigated  pain  to  all 
those  she  loved  best. 

Erica  had  had  her  full  share  of  pain,  but  never  had  she 
known  anything  so  agonising  as  that  moment's  sharp  revulsion, 
ilechanically  she  walked  on  until  she  reached  home ;  nobody 
was  in.  She  looked  into  the  little  sitting-room,  but  only 
Friskarina  sat  puiTing  on  the  rug.  The  table  was  strewn  with 
the  Saturday  papers  ;  the  mid-day  post  had  just  come.  She 
turned    over   the   letters   and   found   one  for   herself  in   her 


158  AT  THE  MUSEUM. 

father's  hand-writing.  It  was  the  one  thing  needed  to  complete 
the  rcahsatiou  of  her  pain.  She  snatched  it  up  with  a  stifled 
sob,  ran  upstairs  to  her  room,  and  threw  herself  down  on  the 
bed  in  a  silent  agony. 

A  new  joy  had  come  to  her  which  her  father  could  not 
share  ;  a  joy  which  he  Avould  call  a  delusion,  which  he  spent 
great  part  of  his  life  in  combating.  To  tell  him  that  she  was 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  Christianity — why,  it  would  almost 
break  his  heart ! 

And  yet  she  must  inflict  this  terrible  pain.  Her  nature 
was  far  too  noble  to  have  dreamed  for  a  single  instant  of  tem- 
porising, of  keeping  her  thoughts  to  herself.  A  Raeburn  was 
not  likely  to  fail  either  iu  courage  or  in  honesty ;  but.  with  her 
courage  and  honesty,  Erica  had  the  violin-like  sensitiveness  of 
nature  which  Eric  Haeberlein  had  noticed  even  in  her  child- 
hood. She  saw  in  the  future  all  the  pain  she  must  bring  to 
her  father,  intensified  by  her  own  sensitiveness.  She  knew  so 
well  what  her  feelings  would  have  been  but  a  short  time  ago,  if 
any  one  she  greatly  loved  had  '  fallen  back '  into  Christianity. 
How  could  she  tell  him  1     How  could  she  ! 

Yet  it  was  a  thing  which  must  be  done.  Should  she  write 
to  him  ]  No,  the  letter  might  reach  him  when  he  was  tired 
and  worried — yet,  to  speak  would  be  more  painful. 

She  got  up,  and  went  to  the  window,  and  let  the  summer 
wind  blow  on  her  heated  forehead.  The  world  had  seemed  to 
her  just  before  one  glorious  presence-chamber,  full  of  sunshine 
and  rejoicing.  But  already  the  shadow  of  a  life-long  pain  had 
fallen  on  her  heart.  A  revealed  Christ  meant  also  a  revealed 
cross,  and  a  right  heavy  one. 

It  Avas  only  by  degrees  that  she  grew  strong  again,  and 
Livingstone's  text  came  back  to  her  once  more,  '  I  am  with  you 
alway.' 

By  -  and  -  by,  she  opened  her  father's  letter.  It  ran  aa 
follows : — 

'I  have  just  remembered  that  Monday  will  be  your  birth- 
day. Let  us  spend  it  together,  little  son  Fa-'igh,  !  A  few  days  at 
Codrington  would  do  us  both  good,  and  1  have  a  tolerably 
leisure  week.  If  you  can  come  down  on  Saturday  afternoon,  so 
much  the  better.  I  will  meet  you  there,  if  you  will  telegraph 
reply  as  soon  as  you  get  this.  I  have  three  lectures  at  Helm- 
stone  on  Sunday,  but  you  will  probably  prefer  a  quiet  day  by 
the  sea.  Bring  me  Westcott's  new  book,  and  you  might  put  in 
the  chisel  and  hammer.     We  will  do  a  little  'rcolo^isin'j;  for  the 


8T0RM.  159 

professor,  if  w<j  have  time.      Meeting  here  last  night   a   great 
success. 

'  Your  loving  father, 

*LuKE  Raeburx.' 

'  He  is  only  thinking  how  he  can  give  me  pleasure  ! '  siglied 
Erica.      '  And  I  have  nothing  to  give  him  but  pain  ! ' 

She  went  at  once,  however,  for  the  Bradshaw,  and  looked 
out  the  afternoon  trains  to  Codringtoo. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

STOUM. 

And  seems  she  mid  deep  silence  to  a  strain 
To  listen,  which  the  soul  alone  can  know, 
Saying,  '  Fear  nought,  for  Jesus  came  on  earth, 
Jesus  of  endless  joys  the  wide,  deep  sea. 
To  ease  each  heavy  load  of  mortal  birth. 
His  waters  ever  clearest,  sweetest  be 
To  him  who  in  a  lonely  bark  drifts  forth 
On  His  great  deeps  of  goodness  trustfully. 

From  Vittoria  Colonna. 

CoDRiNGTON  was  one  of  the  very  few  seaside  places  within 
fairly  easy  reach  of  London  which  had  not  been  vulgarised 
into  an  ordinary  watering-place.  It  was  a  primitive  little  place, 
with  one  good,  old-established  hotel,  and  a  limited  number  of 
villas  and  lodging-houses,  which  only  served  as  a  sort  of  orna- 
mental fringe  to  the  picturesque  little  fishing-town. 

The  fact  was,  that  it  was  just  midway  between  two  large 
and  deservedly  popular  resorts,  and  so  it  had  been  overlooked, 
and  to  the  regi'et  of  the  thrifty  inhabitants,  and  the  satisfaction 
of  the  visitors  who  came  there  for  quiet,  its  peaceful  streets  and 
its  stony  beach  were  never  invaded  by  excui'sionists.  No  cock- 
neys came  down  for  the  Sunday  to  eat  shrimps  ;  the  slu'imps 
were  sent  away  by  train  to  the  more  favoured  watering-places, 
and  the  Codrington  shopkeepers  shook  their  heads  and  gave 
up  expecting  to  make  a  fortune  in  such  a  conservative  little 
place.  Erica  said  it  reminded  her  of  the  dormouse  in  Alice  in 
Wonderland,  tyrannised  over  by  the  hatter  on  one  side  and  the 
March  hare  on  the  other,  and  eventually  put  head  foremost 
into  the  teapot.  Certainly  Helmstone  on  the  east  and  \Yest- 
port  on  the  west  had  managed  to  eclipse  it  altogether,  and  its 
peaceful  sleepiness  made  the  dormouse  comparison  by  no  meana 
inapt 


1  GO  STORM. 

It  all  looked  \vonde:fully  unchanged  as  slic  walked  from 
the  station  that  summer  afternoon  with  her  father.  The 
square,  gray  tower  of  St.  Oswald's  Church,  the  little,  winding, 
irregular  streets,  the  very  shop-windows  seemed  quite  un- 
altered, while  at  every  turn  familiar  faces  came  into  sight. 
The  shrewd  old  sailor  with  the  telescope,  the  prim  old  lady  at 
the  bookseller's,  who  had  pronounced  the  Imitation  of  Christ 
to  be  quite  out  of  fashion,  the  sturdy  milkman,  with  white 
smock  frock,  and  bright  pails  fastened  to  a  wooden  yoke, 
and  the  coast-guardsman,  who  was  always  whistling  '  Tom 
Bowling.' 

The  sea  was  as  calm  as  a  mill-pond  ;  Raeburn  suggested  an 
hour  or  two  on  the  water,  and  Erica,  wdio  was  fond  of  boating, 
gladly  assented.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  speak  to 
her  father  that  evening ;  he  had  a  veiy  hard  day's  work  before 
him  on  the  Sunday ;  they  must  have  these  few  hours  in  peace. 
She  did  not  in  the  least  dread  any  subject  coming  up  which 
might  put  her  into  difficulty,  for,  on  the  rare  days  when  her 
father  allowed  himself  any  rcci'eation,  he  entirely  banished  all 
controversal  topics  from  his  mind.  He  asked  no  single  ques- 
tion relating  to  the  work  or  to  business  of  any  kind,  but  gave 
himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  much  needed  rest  and  relaxa- 
tion. He  seemed  in  excellent  spirits,  and  Erica  herself  would 
have  been  rapturously  happy  if  she  had  not  been  haunted  by 
the  thought  of  the  pain  that  awaited  him.  She  knew  that  this 
was  the  last  evening  she  and  her  father  should  ever  spend 
together  in  the  old  perfect  confidence  ;  divi;sion — the  most 
painful  of  all  divisions — lay  before  them. 

The  next  day  she  was  left  to  herself.  She  would  not  go  to 
the  old  gray-towered  church ;  though  as  an  atheist  she  had 
gone  to  one  or  two  churches  to  look  and  listen,  she  felt  that 
she  could  not  honourably  go  as  a  worshipper  till  she  had 
spoken  to  her  father.  So  she  wandered  about  on  the  shore, 
and  in  the  restful  quiet  learnt  more,  and  grew  stronger,  and 
conquered  the  di'cad  of  the  morrow.  She  did  not  see  her 
father  again  that  day,  for  he  could  not  get  back  from  Helm- 
stone  till  a  late  train,  and  she  had  promised  not  to  sit  up  for 
him. 

The  mot-ning  of  her  twenty-third  birthday  was  bright  and 
sunshiny ;  she  had  slept  well,  but  awoke  with  the  oppressive 
consciousness  that  a  terrible  hard  duty  lay  before  her.  When 
she  came  down  there  Avas  a  serious  look  in  her  eyes  which  did 
not  escape  Raeburn's  keen  observation.  He  was  down  bcforo 
her,  and  had  been  out  already,  for  he  had  managed  somehow 


STORM.  161 

to  procure  a  lovely  handful  of  red  and  white  roses  and 
mignonette. 

'AH  good  wislaes  for  yonr  birthday,  and  "sweets  to  the 
sweet,"  as  some  one  remarked  on  a  more  funereal  occasion,'  he 
said,  stooping  to  kiss  her.  '  Dear  little  son  Eric,  it  is  very 
jolly  to  have  you  to  myself  for  once.  No  disrespect  to  Aunt 
Jean  and  old  Tom,  but  two  is  company  ! ' 

'  What  lovely  flowers  ! '  exclaimed  Erica.  '  How  good  of 
you  !     Where  did  they  come  from  ] ' 

'I  made  love  to  old  Nicolls,  the  florist,  to  let  me  gather 
them  myself ;  he  was  very  anxious  to  make  a  gorgeous  arrange- 
ment done  lip  in  white  paper  with  a  lace  edge,  and  thought  me 
a  fearful  Goth  for  preferring  this  disorderly  bunch.' 

They  sat  down  to  breakfast ;  afterwai'ds,  the  morning 
papers  came  in,  and  Eaeburn  disappeared  behind  the  Daily 
Eevieio,  while  the  servant  cleared  the  table.  Erica  stood  by 
the  open  French  window ;  she  knew  that  in  a  few  minutes  she 
must  speak,  and  how  to  get  what  she  had  to  say  into  words 
she'  did  not  know.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast  that  she  felt  almost 
choked.  In  a  sort  of  dream  of  pain  she  watched  the  passers-by 
— happy-looking  girls  going  down  to  bathe,  children  with 
spades  and  pails.  Everything  seemed  so  tranquil,  so  ordinary, 
while  before  her  lay  a  duty  which  must  change  her  whole 
world  ! 

'  Not  much  news,'  said  Eaeburn,  coming  towards  her  as  the 
servant  left  the  room.  '  For  dulness  commend  me  to  a  Monday 
paper !  Well,  Eric,  how  are  we  to  spend  your  twenty-third 
birthday  1  To  think  that  I  have  actually  a  child  of  twenty- 
three  !  Why,  I  ought  to  feel  an  old  patriarch,  and,  in  spite  of 
white  hair  and  life-long  badgering,  I  don't,  you  know  !  Come, 
what  shall  we  do  !     Where  would  you  like  to  go  1 ' 

'  Father,'  said  Erica,  '  I  want  first  to  have  a  talk  with  you. 
I — I  have  something  to  tell  you.' 

The  was  no  longer  any  mistakening  that  the  seriousness 
meant  some  kind  of  trouble.     Eaeburn  put  his  ai-m  round  her. 

'  Why,  my  little  girl,'  he  said,  tenderly.  *  You  are  tremb- 
ling all  over  !     What  is  the  matter  ? ' 

'  The  matter  is  that  what  I  have  to  say  will  pain  you,  and 
it  half  kills  me  to  do  that.  But  there  is  no  choice — tell  you 
I  must.  You  would  not  wish  me  not  to  be  true,  not  to  be 
honest.' 

Utter  perplexity  filled  Eaeburn 's  mind.  What  phantom 
trouble  was  thi-eatening  him  1  Had  she  been  commissioned  to 
tell  him  of  some  untoward  event? — some  business  calamity] 


1G2  STORM. 

Had  slie  fallen  in  love  with  some  one  he  could  not  permit  her 
to  marry  ]  He  looked  qiiestiouingly  at  her,  but  her  expression 
only  perplexed  him  still  more ;  she  was  trembling  ik>  longer, 
and  her  eyes  were  clear  and  bright,  there  was  a  stiong  look 
about  her  whole  face. 

'  Fatlicr,'  she  said,  quietly,  '  I  have  learnt  to  believe  in 
Jesus  Christ.' 

He  wrenched  away  his  arm ;  he  stai'ted  back  from  her  as  if 
she  had  stabbed  him.     For  a  minute  he  looked  perfectly  dazed. 

At  last,  after  a  silence  which  seemed  to  each  of  them  age- 
long, he  spdce  in  the  agitated  voice  of  one  who  has  just  re- 
ceived a  great  blow. 

'  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Erica  ?  Do  you  know 
what  such  a  confession  as  you  have  made  will  involve  1  Do 
you  mean  that  you  accept  the  whole  of  Christ's  teaching  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  she  replied,  firmly,  '  I  do.' 

'  You  intend  to  tnrn  Christian  ] ' 

'  Yes,  to  try  to.' 

'  How  long  have  you  and  Mr.  Osmond  been  concocting 
this  1 ' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  said  Erica,  terribly  wounded 
by  his  tone. 

*  Did  he  send  you  down  here  to  tell  mel' 

'  Mr.  Osmond  knows  nothing  about  it,'  said  Erica.  '  How 
coidd  I  tell  any  one  before  you,  father  ] ' 

Raebura  was  touched  by  this.  He  took  several  turns  up 
and  down  the  room  before  speaking  again,  but  the  more  lie 
grasped  the  idea  the  deeper  grew  his  grief  and  the  hotter  his 
anger.  He  was  a  man  of  iron  will,  however,  and  he  kept  both 
under.  When  at  length  he  did  speak,  his  voice  was  quiet  and 
cold  and  repressed. 

'  Sit  down,'  he  said,  motioning  her  to  a  chair.  '  This  is  not 
a  subject  that  we  can  dismiss  in  five  minutes'  talk.  I  must 
hear  your  reasons.  We  will  put  aside  all  personal  considera- 
tions.    I  will  consider  you  just  as  an  ordinary  opponent.' 

His  coldness  chilled  her  to  the  heart.  Was  it  always  to  be 
like  this  1  How  could  she  possibly  endure  it !  How  was  she 
to  answer  his  questions, — how  was  she  to  vindicate  her  faith, 
when  the  mere  i/me  of  his  voice  seemed  to  paralyse  her  heart  ] 
He  was  indeed  treating  her  with  the  cold  formality  of  an 
opponent,  but  never  for  a  single  instant  could  she  forget  that 
he  was  her  father  —  the  being  she  loved  best  in  the  whole 
world. 

But  Erica  was  brave  and  true;  she  knew  that  this  was  a 


STORM.  163 

crisis  in  their  lives,  and,  thrusting  down  her  own  personal  pain, 
she  forced  herself  to  give  her  whole  heart  and  mind  to  the 
searching  and  perplexing  questions  with  which  her  father 
intended  to  test  tlie  reality  of  her  convictions.  Had  she  been 
unaccustomed  to  his  mode  of  attack,  he  would  have  hopelessly 
silenced  her,  as  far  as  argument  goes,  in  half-an-hour ;  but  not 
only  was  Erica's  faith  perfectly  real,  but  she  had,  as  it  were, 
herself  traversed  the  whole  of  his  objections  and  difficulties. 
Though  far  from  imagining  that  she  understood  everything, 
she  had  yet  so  firmly  grasped  the  innermost  truth  that  all 
details  as  yet  outside  her  vision  were  to  her  no  longer  hin- 
drances and  bugbears,  but  so  many  new  possibilities — other 
hopes  of  fresh  manifestations  of  God. 

She  held  her  ground  well,  and  every  minute  Raeburn 
realised  more  keenly  that  whatever  hopes  he  had  entertained 
of  re-convincing  her  were  futile.  What  made  it  all  the  more 
painful  to  him  was  that  the  tliorov;ghness  of  the  training  he 
had  given  her  now  only  told  against  him,  and  the  argument 
which  he  carried  on  in  a  cold,  metallic  voice  was  really  piercing 
his  very  heart,  for  it  was  like  arguing  against  another  self,  the 
dearest  pai't  of  himself  gone  over  to  the  enemy's  side. 

At  last  he  saw  that  argument  was  useless,  and  then,  in  his 
grief  and  despair,  he  did  for  a  time  lose  his  self-control.  Erica 
had  often  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  creatures  who  had  to  bear  tlie 
brunt  of  her  father's  scathing  sarcasm.  But  platform  irony 
was  a  trifle  to  the  torrent  which  bore  down  upon  her  to-day. 
When  a  strong  man  does  lose  his  restraint  upon  himself,  the 
result  is  terrific.  Raeburn  had  never  sufhciently  cared  for  an 
adversary  as  to  be  moved  beyond  an  anger  which  could  be 
restricted  and  held  within  due  bounds ;  he  of  course  cared 
more  for  the  success  of  his  cause  and  his  own  dignity.  But 
now  his  love  drove  him  to  despair  ;  his  intolerable  grief  at  the 
thought  of  having  an  opponent  in  his  own  child  burst  all  re- 
straining bonds.  Wounded  to  the  quick,  he  who  had  never  in 
his  life  spoken  a  harsh  word  to  his  child  now  pom-ed  forth  such 
a  storm  of  anger,  and  sarcasm,  and  bitter  reproach,  as  might 
have  made  even  an  uninterested  bystander  tremble. 

Had  Erica  made  any  appeal,  had  she  even  begun  to  cry,  his 
chivalry  would  have  been  touched ;  he  would  have  recognised 
her  weakness,  and  regained  his  self-control.  But  she  was  not 
weak,  she  was  strong — she  was  his  other  self  gone  over  to  the 
opposite  side :  that  was  what  almost  maddened  him.  The 
torrent  bore  down  upon  her,  and  she  spoke  not  a  word,  but 
just   sat  still  and  endured.      Only,  as  the  words  grew  more 


IGl  STORM. 

bitter  and  more  wounding,  her  lips  grew  white,  her  hands  wore 
locked  more  tightly  together.     At  last  it  ended. 

'  You  have  cheated  yourself  into  this  belief,'  said  Raebum, 
*  you  have  given  me  the  most  bitter  grief  and  disappointment 
of  my  whole  life.  Have  you  anything  else  you  wish  to  say 
to  me?' 

'Nothing,'  replied  Erica,  not  daring  to  venture  more;  for, 
if  she  had  tried  to  speak,  she  knew  she  must  have  burst  into 
tears. 

But  there  was  as  much  pain  expressed  in  her  voice  as  she 
spoke  that  one  word,  as  there  had  been  in  all  her  father's 
outburst.  It  appealed  to  him  at  once.  He  said  no  more,  but 
stepped  out  of  the  French  window,  and  began  to  pace  to  and 
fro  under  the  verandah. 

Erica  did  not  stir;  she  was  like  one  crushed.  Sad  and 
harassed  as  her  life  had  been,  it  yet  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  never  known  such  indescribably  bitter  pain.  The  outside 
world  looked  bright  and  sunshiny  :  she  could  see  the  waves 
breaking  on  the  shore,  while  beyond,  sailing  out  into  the  Avide 
expanse  was  a  brown-sailed  fishing-boat.  Every  now  and  then 
her  vision  was  intcrnipted  by  a  tall,  dark  figure  pacing  to  and 
fro;  every  now  and  then  the  sunlight  glinted  on  snow-white 
hair,  and  then  a  fresh  stab  of  pain  awoke  in  her  heart. 

The  brown-sailed  fishing-boat  dwindled  into  a  tiny  dark 
spot  on  the  horizon,  the  sea  tossed  and  foamed  and  sparkled  in 
the  sunshine.  Erica  turned  away ;  she  could  not  bear  to  look 
at  it,  for  just  now  it  seemed  to  her  merely  the  type  of  the 
terrible  separation  which  had  arisen  between  herself  and  her 
father.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  being  borne  away  in  the  little 
fishing-boat,  while  he  was  left  on  the  land,  and  the  distance 
between  them  slowly  widened  and  widened. 

All  through  that  grievous  conversation  she  had  held  in  her 
hand  a  little  bit  of  mignonette.  She  had  held  it  unconsciously; 
it  was  withered  and  drooping,  its  sweetness  seemed  to  her  now 
sickly  and  hateful.  She  identified  it  with  her  pain,  and  years 
after  the  smell  of  mignonette  was  intolerable  to  her.  She 
would  have  thrown  it  away,  but  remembered  that  her  father 
had  given  it  her.  And  then,  with  the  recollection  of  her  birth- 
day gift,  came  the  realisation  of  all  the  long  years  of  unbroken 
and  perfect  love,  so  rudely  intcrrxiptcd  to-day.  Was  it  always 
to  be  like  this  1  must  they  drift  further  and  further  apart  1 

Her  heart  was  almost  breaking  ;  she  had  endured  to  the 
very  uttermost,  when  at  length  comfort  came.  The  sword  had 
only  C(.)mo  to  bring  the   higher   peace.       No   terrible    sea  of 


STORM.  165 

division  could  part  those  whom  love  could  bind  together.     The 
peace  of  God  stole  once  more  into  her  heart. 

•  How  loud  soe'er  the  world  may  roar, 
We  know  love  will  be  conqueror.' 

Lleanwhilo  Ivaeburn  paced  to  and  fro  in  grievous  pain.  The 
fact  that  his  pain  could  scarcely  perhaps  have  been  compre- 
hended by  the  generality  of  people  did  not  make  it  less  real  or 
less  hard  to  bear.  A  really  honest  atheist,  who  is  convinced 
that  Clu-istianity  is  false  and  misleading,  suffers  as  much  at 
the  sight  of  what  he  considers  a  mischievous  belief  as  a 
Christian  would  suifer  while  w^atching  a  service  in  some 
heathen  temple.  Rather  his  pain  would  be  greater,  for  his 
belief  in  the  gradual  progress  of  his  creed  is  shadowy  and  dim 
compared  with  the  Christian's  conviction  that  the  '  Savour  of 
all  men'  exists. 

Once,  some  years  before,  a  very  able  man,  one  of  his  most 
devoted  followers,  had  '  fixllen  back '  into  Christianity.  That 
had  been  a  bitter  disappointment ;  but  that  his  own  child, 
whom  he  loved  more  than  anything  in  the  world,  should  have 
forsaken  him  and  gone  over  to  the  enemy,  was  a  grief  well-nigh 
intolerable.  It  was  a  grief  he  had  never  for  one  moment 
contemplated. 

Could  anything  be  more  improbable  than  that  Erica,  care- 
fully trained  as  she  had  been,  shoidd  relapse  so  strangely] 
Her  whole  life  had  been  spent  among  atheists ;  there  was  not  a 
single  objection  to  Christianity  which  had  not  been  placed 
before  her.  She  had  read  much,  thought  much ;  she  had 
Avorked  indefatigably  to  aid  the  cause.  Again  and  again  she 
had  braved  personal  insult  and  wounding  injustice  as  an 
atheist.  She  had  voluntarily  gone  into  exile  to  help  her  father 
in  his  difficulties.  Through  the  shameful  injustice  of  a  Chris- 
tian, she  had  missed  the  last  years  of  her  mother's  life,  and  had 
been  absent  from  her  death-bed.  She  had  borae  on  behalf  of 
her  father's  cause  a  thousand  irritating  privations,  a  thousand 
harassing  cares  ;  she  had  been  hard-working,  and  loyal,  and 
devoted ;  and  now  all  at  once  she  had  turned  completely  round 
and  placed  herself  in  the  opposing  ranks  ! 

Raebnrn  had  all  his  life  been  fighting  against  desperate 
odds,  and  in  the  conflict  he  had  lost  well-nigh  everything.  He 
had  lost  his  home  long  ago,  he  had  lost  his  father's  good-will, 
he  had  lost  the  Avhole  of  his  inheritance  ;  he  had  lost  health, 
and  strength,  and  repixtation,  and  money ;  he  had  lost  all  the 
lesser  comforts  of  life  ;  and  now  he  said  to  himself  that  he  waa 
to  lose  his  dearest  treasure  of  all,  his  child. 


IG6  STORM. 

Bitter,  liopeless,  life-long  division  had  arisen  between  them. 
For  t^Ycnty-three  years  he  had  loved  her  as  truly  as  ever  father 
loved  child,  and  this  Avas  his  reward  !  A  miserable  sense  of 
isolation  arose  in  his  heart.  Erica  had  been  so  much  to  him — 
how  co\ild  he  live  without  her?  The  muscles  of  his  face 
quivered  with  emotion  ;   he  clenched  his  hands  almost  fiercely. 

Then  he  tortured  himself  by  letting  his  thoughts  wander 
back  to  the  past.  That  very  day  years  ago,  when  he  had  first 
learnt  what  fatherhood  meant ;  the  pride  of  watching  his  little 
girl  as  the  years  rolled  on  ;  the  terrible  anxiety  of  one  long 
and  dangerous  illness  she  had  passed  through — how  well  he 
remembered  the  time  !  They  were  very  poor,  could  afford  no 
expensive  luxuries ;  he  had  shared  the  nursing  with  his  wife. 
One  night  he  remembered  toiling  away  with  his  pen  while  the 
sick  child  was  actually  on  his  knee ;  he  always  fancied  that  the 
pamphlet  he  had  then  been  at  work  on  was  more  bitterly 
sarcastic  than  anything  he  had  ever  written.  Then  on  once 
more  into  j-ears  of  desperately  hard  work  and  disappointingly 
small  results,  embittered  by  persecution,  crippled  by  penalties 
and  never-ending  litigation  ;  but  always  there  had  been  the 
little  child  Avaitiug  for  him  at  home,  who  by  her  babylike  free- 
dom from  care  could  make  him  smile  when  he  was  overwhelmed 
with  anxiety.  How  could  he  ever  have  endured  the  bitter 
obloquy,  the  slanderous  attacks,  the  countless  indignities  which 
had  met  him  on  all  sides,  if  there  had  not  been  one  little  child 
who  adored  him,  who  followed  him  about  like  a  shadow,  who 
loved  him  and  trusted  him  utterly] 

Busy  as  his  life  had  been,  burdened  as  he  had  been  for 
yeai-s  with  twice  as  much  work  as  he  could  get  through,  the 
child  had  never  been  crowded  out  of  his  life.  Even  as  a  little 
thing  of  four  years  old,  Erica  had  been  quite  content  to  sit  on 
the  floor  in  his  study  by  the  hour  together,  qiiietly  amiising 
herself  by  cutting  old  newspapers  into  fantastic  shapes,  or  by 
drawing  impossible  cats  and  dogs  and  horses  on  the  margins. 
She  had  never  disturbed  him  ;  she  used  to  talk  to  herself  in 
whispers. 

'Are  you  happy,  little  onel'  he  used  to  ask  from  time  to 
time,  with  a  sort  of  passionate  desire  that  he  shoxdd  enjoy  her 
unconscious  childhood,  foreseeing  care  and  trouble  for  her  in 
the  future. 

'  Yes,  vely  happy,'  liad  been  the  invariable  response ;  and 
generally  Erica  would  avail  herself  of  the  inteiTuption  to  ask 
his  opinion  about  some  square-headed  cat,  with  eyes  askew  and 
an   astonishing   number   of  legs,  which  she  had  just  drawn. 


STORM.  167 

Then  would  come  what  she  called  a  '  bear's  hug,'  after  which 
silence  reigned  again  in  the  study,  while  Eaeburn  would  go  on 
writing  some  augumentative  pamphlet,  hard  and  clear  as  crystal, 
his  heart  warmed  by  the  little  child's  love,  the  remains  of  a 
smile  lingering  about  his  lips  at  the  recollection  of  the  square- 
headed  cat. 

And  'the  years  passed  on,  and  every  year  deepened  and 
strengthened  their  love.  And  by  slow  degi-ees  he  had  watched 
the  development  of  her  mind  ;  had  gloried  in  her  quick  percep- 
tion ;  had  learnt  to  come  to  her  for  a  second  opinion  every  now 
and  then  ;  had  felt  provid  of  her  common  sense,  her  thoughtful 
judgments ;  had  delighted  in  her  enthusiastic,  loving  help. 
All  this  was  ended  now.  Strange  that,  just  as  he  hoped  most 
from  her,  she  should  fail  him  !  It  was  a  repetition  of  his  own 
early  history  exactly  reversed,  His  thoughts  went  back  to  his 
father's  study  in  the  old  Scottish  parsonage.  He  remembered  a 
long,  fierce  argument ;  he  remembered  a  storm  of  abusive 
anger,  and  a  furious  dismissal  from  the  house.  The  old  pain 
came  back  to  him  vividly. 

'And  she  loves  me  fifty  thousand  times  more  than  I  ever  loved 
my  father,'  he  reflected.  'And,  though  I  was  not  abusive,  I  was 
hard  on  her.  And,  however  mistaken,  she  was  very  brave,  very 
honest  1  Oh,  I  was  cruel  to  her — harsh,  and  hateful  !  My 
little  child  !  my  poor  little  child  !  It  shall  not — it  cannot  divide 
us.     I  am  hers,  and  she  is  mine — nothing  can  ever  alter  that.' 

He  turned,  and  Avent  back  into  the  room.  Never  had  he 
looked  grander  than  at  that  minute  ;  this  man  who  could  hold 
thousands  in  breathless  attention — this  man  Avho  was  more 
passionately  loved  by  his  friends,  more  passionately  hated  by 
his  enemies  than  almost  any  man  in  England  ! — he  was  just  the 
ideal  father. 

Erica  had  not  stirred,  she  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
looking  very  still  and  white.     He  came  close  to  her. 

'  Little  son  Eric ! '  he  said,  with  a  whole  world  of  love  in 
his  tone. 

She  sprang  up  and  wreathed  her  anns  round  his  neck. 

By-and  by,  they  began  to  talk  in  low  tones,  to  map  out  and 
piece  together  as  well  as  they  could  the  future  life,  which  was 
inevitably  severed  from  the  past  by  a  deep  gi;lf.  They  spoke 
of  the  work  which  they  could  still  share,  of  the  interests  they 
should  still  have  in  common.  It  was  very  sad  work  for  Erica 
— infinitely  sadder  for  Raeburn  ;  but  they  were  both  of  them 
brave  and  noble  souls,  and  they  loved  each  other,  and  so  could 
get  above  the  sadness.     One  thing   they    both  agreed  upoix 


168  STORM, 

They  would  never  argue  about  tlieir  opinions.  They  would,  as 
far  as  possible,  avoid  any  allusion  to  the  grave  differences  that 
lay  between  them. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  a  little  group  of  fishcnuen  and  idlers 
stood  on  the  bcacli.  They  were  looking  out  seaw  ai'd  with  some 
anxiety,  for  a  sudden  wind  had  arisen,  and  there  was  what  they 
called  '  an  ugly  sea.' 

'  I  tell  you  it  was  madness  to  let  'em  go  alone  on  such  a 
day,'  said  the  old  sailor  with  the  telescope, 

*  And  I  tell  you  that  the  old  gentleman  pulls  as  good  an  oar 
as  any  of  us,'  retorted  another  man,  in  a  blue  Jersey  and  a 
sou'wester. 

'  Old  gentleman,  indeed  ! '  broke  in  the  coast-guardsman. 
'Better  say  devil  at  once  !  Wlay,  man  alive  !  your  old  gentle- 
man is  Luke  Raebum  the  atheist,' 

'God  forbid!'  exclaimed  the  first  speaker,  lowering  his 
telescope  for  a  moment,  '  Why,  he  be  m'ghty  friendly  to  us 
fishermen.' 

*  Where  be  they  now,  gaffer  ?  D''yc  see  them  V  asked  a  keen- 
looking  lad  of  seventeen. 

'  Ay,  there  they  be  !  there  they  be  !  God  have  mercy  on 
'em  !     They'll  be  swamped  sure  as  fate  ! ' 

The  coast-guardsman,  with  provoked  sang-froid  and  in- 
difference, began  to  sing, 

'  For,  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 
His  soul  is  gone  alo-o-o-ft.' 

And  then  breaking  off  into  a  sort  of  recitative. 

'Which  is  exactly  the  opposite  quarter  to  what  Luke 
Raeburn's  soul  will  go,  I  guess.' 

'  Blowed  if  I  wouldn't  pull  a  oar  to  save  a  mate,  if  I  were 
so  mighty  sure  he  was  going  to  the  devil  ! '  observed  a  weather- 
beaten  seaman,  with  gold  earrings  and  a  good  deal  of  tattooing 
on  his  brawny  arms. 

'  Would  you  now  ! '  said  the  coast-guardsman,  with  a 
superior  and  sardonic  smile,  '  Well,  in  my  'umble  opinion, 
drowning's  too  good  for  him.' 

With  which  humane  utterance,  the  coast-guardsman  walked 
off,  singing  of  Tom  who 

'  Never  from  his  word  departed, 
Whose  heart  was  kind  and  soft.' 

*  Well,  I,  for  one,  will  lend  a  hand  to  help  them.  Now 
then,  mates!  which  of  you  is  going  to  help  to  cheat  the  devil 
of  his  due  ]'  said  the  man  with  the  earrings. 


8T0UM.  1C9 

Three  men  profeiTed  their  services,  but  the  old  seaman  with 
the  telescope  checked  them. 

'  Bide  a  bit,  mates,  bide  a  bit ;  I'm  not  sure  you've  a  call  to 
go.'  He  wiDed  the  glasses  of  his  telescope  -with  a  red  handker- 
chief, and  then  looked  out  seaward  once  more. 

In  the  meantime  while  their  fiite  was  being  discussed  on 
the  shore,  Raeburn  and  Erica  were  face  to  face  with  death. 
They  were  a  long  way  from  land  before  the  wind  had  sprung 
up  so  strongly.  Raeburn,  who  in  his  young  days  had  been  at 
once  the  pride  and  the  anxiety  of  the  fishermen  round  his 
Scottish  home,  and  noted  for  his  rashness  and  daring,  had  now 
lost  the  freshness  of  his  experience,  and  had  grown  forgetful  of 
weather  tokens.  The  danger  Avas  upon  them  before  he  had 
even  thought  of  it.  The  strong  wind  bloAving  upon  them,  the 
delicious  salt  freshness,  even  the  brisk  motion,  had  been  such  a 
relief  to  them  after  the  pain  and  excitement  of  the  morning. 
But  all  at  once  they  began  to  realise  that  their  peril  was  great. 
Their  little  boat  tossed  so  fearfully  that  Erica  had  to  cling  to 
the  seat  for  safety ;  one  moment  they  were  down  in  the  hollow 
of  a  deep  green  wave,  the  next  they  would  be  tossed  up  upon 
its  crest  as  though  their  boat  had  been  a  mere  cockle-shell. 

'  I'm  afraid  we've  made  a  mistake,  Eric,'  said  Raeburn.  'I 
ovight  to  have  seen  this  storm  coming  up.' 

'What?'  cried  Erica,  for  the  dashing  of  the  waves  made 
the  end  of  the  sentence  inaudible. 

He  looked  across  the  boat  at  her,  and  an  almost  paralysing 
dread  filled  his  heart.  For  himself  he  could  be  brave,  for 
himself  death  had  no  teiTors — but  for  his  child? 

A  horrible  vision  rose  before  him.  He  saw  her  lying  stiff 
and  cold,  with  glazed  eyes  and  drenched  air.  Was  there  to  be 
a  yet  more  terrible  separation  between  them  1  Was  death  to 
snatch  her  from  him  1  Ah,  no — that  should  never  be  !  They 
would  at  least  go  down  together. 

The  vision  faded ;  he  saw  once  more  the  fair,  eager  face,  no 
longer  pallid,  but  flushed  with  excitement,  the  brave  eyes  clear 
and  bright,  but  somewhat  anxious.  The  consciousness  that 
everything  depended  on  him  helped  him  to  rise  above  that 
overmastering  horror.     He  was  once  more  his  strongest  self. 

The  rudder  had  been  left  on  the  beach,  and  it  was  only 
possible  to  steer  by  the  oars.  He  dismissed  even  the  thought 
of  Erica,  and  concentrated  his  whole  being  on  the  difficult  task 
before  him.  So  grand  did  he  look  in  that  tremendous  en- 
deavour that  Erica  almost  forgot  her  anxiety  ;  there  was  some- 


170  STORM. 

thing  so  forceful  in  his  whole  aspect  that  she  could  not  be  afraid. 
Her  heart  beat  quickly  indeed,  but  the  consciouness  of  danger 
was  stimulating. 

Yet  the  waves  grew  more  and  more  furious,  rolling,  curling, 
dashing  up  in  angry  white  foam — '  raging  horribly.'  At  length 
came  one  which  broke  right  over  the  little  boat,  blinding  and 
drenching  its  occupants. 

'  Another  like  that  will  do  for  las,'  said  Raebvim,  in  a  quiet 
voice. 

The  boat  was  half  full  of  water.  Erica  began  to  bale  out 
with  her  father's  hat,  and  each  knew  fi'om  tlie  other's  face  that 
their  plight  was  hopeless. 

Raeburn  had  faced  death  many  times.  He  had  faced  it 
more  than  once  on  a  sick  bed,  he  had  faced  it  surrounded  by 
yelling  and  furious  mobs,  but  he  had  never  faced  it  side  by 
side  with  his  child.  Again  he  looked  at  the  angry  grey- 
green  waves,  at  the  wreaths  of  curling  white  foam,  again  that 
awful  vision  rose  before  him,  and,  brave  man  as  he  was,  he 
shuddered. 

Life  was  sweet  even  though  he  was  harassed,  persecuted, 
libelled.  Life  was  sweet  even  though  his  child  had  deserted 
his  cause,  even  though  she  had  '  cheated  herself  into  a  belief.' 
Life  was  infinitely  worth  living,  mere  existence  an  exquisite  joy, 
blank  nothingness  a  hideous  alternative. 

'Bale  out!'  he  cried,  despair  in  his  eyes,  but  a  curve  of 
resoluteness  about  his  lips. 

A  few  more  strokes  warily  pulled,  another  huge  wave 
swooping  along,  rearing  itself  up,  dashing  down  upon  them. 
The  boat  reeled  and  staggered.  To  struggle  longer  was  use- 
less. Raeburn  threw  his  oars  in  board,  caught  hold  of  Erica, 
and  held  her  fast.  When  they  coxdd  see  once  more,  they 
found  the  boat  qiiite  three  parts  full. 

'  Child  !'  he  said,  'child  !'  But  nothing  more  would  come. 
For  once  in  his  life  Avords  failed  him ;  the  orator  was  speechless. 
Was  it  a  minute  or  an  eteniity  that  he  waited  thei*e  through 
that  awful  pause — waited  with  his  arm  round  Erica,  feeling  the 
beating  of  her  heart,  the  heart  which  must  soon  cease  beating 
for  ever,  feeling  her  warm  breath  on  his  cheek — alas  !  how  few 
more  breaths  would  she  draw !  How  soon  would  the  cold  watery 
grave  close  over  all  that  he 

His  thoughts  were  abruptly  checked.  That  eternal  minute 
of  waiting  was  over.  It  was  coming — death  was  coming — • 
riding  along  with  mocking  scorn  on  the  crest  of  a  giant  wave. 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  towering,  sea-green  wall,  mockingly 


STORM.  171 

it  rushed  forward,  remorselessly  swooped  down  upon  them  ! 
This  time  the  boat  was  completely  swamped. 

'  I  will  at  least  die  fighting  ! '  thovight  Raeburn,  a  despair- 
ing, defiant  courage  inspiring  him  with  almost  superhuman 
strength. 

'Trust  to  me!'  he  cried.  'Don't  struggle!'  And  Erica, 
who  would  naturally  have  fallen  into  that  frantic  and  vain  con- 
vulsion which  seizes  most  people  when  they  find  themselves  in 
peril  of  drowning,  by  a  supreme  effort  of  will  made  no  struggle 
at  all,  but  only  clung  to  her  father. 

Raeburn  was  a  very  strong  man,  and  an  expert  sw^immer, 
but  it  was  a  fearful  sea.  They  were  dashed  hither  and  thither, 
they  were  buffeted,  and  choked,  and  blinded,  but  never  once 
did  he  lose  his  presence  of  mind.  Every  now  and  then  he  even 
shouted  out  a  few  words  to  Erica.  How  strange  his  voice 
sounded  in  that  chaos,  in  that  raging  symphony  of  winds  and 
waves. 

'  Tell  me  when  you  can't  hold  any  longer,'  he  cried. 

'  I  can't  leave  go,'  returned  Erica. 

And  even  then,  in  that  desperate  minute,  they  both  felt  a 
momentary  thrill  of  amusement.  The  fact  was,  that  her  effort 
of  will  had  been  so  great  when  she  had  obeyed  him,  and  clung 
with  all  her  might  to  him,  that  now  the  muscles  of  her  hands 
absolutely  would  not  relax  their  hold. 

It  seemed  endless  !  Over  the  cold  green  and  white  of  the 
waves  Raeburn  seemed  to  see  his  whole  life  stretched  out  before 
him  in  a  series  of  vivid  pictures.  All  the  long  struggles,  all  the 
desperate  fights  wreathed  themselves  out  in  visions  round  this 
supreme  death-struggle.  And  always  there  was  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  was  toiling  for  Erica's  life,  struggling,  agonising, 
straining  every  fibre  of  his  being  to  save  her. 

But  what  was  this  paralysing  cold  creeping  over  his  limbs'? 
What  this  pressure  at  his  hearts — this  dimness  of  his  eyes'? 
Oh  !  was  his  strength  failing  him  1  Was  the  last  hope,  indeed, 
gone  '?     Panting,  he  struggled  on. 

'  I  will  do  thirty  more  strokes  !'  he  said  to  himself. 

And  he  did  them. 

'  I  will  do  ten  more  ! ' 

And  he  forced  himself  to  keep  on. 

'  Ten  more  !' 

He  was  gasping  now.  Erica's  wciglit  seemed  to  be  dragging 
him  down,  down,  into  nothingness. 

Six  strokes  painfully  made  !  Seven  ! — After  all  nothingness 
would  mean  rest.     Eight ! — No  pain  to  either,  since  they  were 


172  STORM. 

together.  Nine  ! — He  should  live  on  in  the  hearts  of  hia 
people.     Ten  ! — Agony  of  failure  !  he  waa  beaten  at  last ! 

AVhat  followed  they  neither  of  them  knew,  only  there  was  a 
shout,  an  agony  of  sinking,  a  vision  of  a  dark  form  and  a  some- 
thing solid  which  they  grasped  convulsively. 

VVhcn  Erica  came  to  herself  they  were  by  no  means  out  of 
danger,  but  there  was  something  between  them  and  the  angry 
sea.  She  was  lying  down  at  the  bottom  of  a  boat  in  close 
proximity  to  some  silvery -skinned  fishes,  and  her  father  was 
holding  her  hand. 

Wildly  they  tossed  for  what  seemed  to  her  a  very  long 
time  ;  biit  at  length  fresh  voices  were  heard,  the  keel  grated  on 
the  shore,  she  felt  herself  lifted  up  and  carried  on  to  the  beach. 
Then,  with  an  effort,  she  stood  up  once  more,  trembling  and 
exhausted,  but  conscious  that  mere  existence  was  rapture. 

llaebum  paused  to  reward  and  thank  the  men  who  had 
rescued  them  in  his  most  genial  manner,  and  Erica's  happiness 
would  have  been  complete  had  not  the  coast-guardsman  stepped 
up  in  an  insolent  and  officious  way,  and  observed, 

'  It  is  a  pity,  Mr.  Luke  Raeburn,  that  you  don't  bring  your- 
self to  offer  thanks  to  God  Almighty  ! ' 

'Sir,'  replied  Raeburn,  'when  I  ask  your  opinion  on  my 
personal  and  private  matters,  it  will  be  fitting  that  you  should 
speak — not  before  !' 

The  man  looked  annihilated,  and  turned  away. 

Raeburn  grasped  the  roiigh  hands  of  his  helpers  and  well- 
wishers,  gave  his  arm  to  Erica,  and  led  her  up  the  steep  beach. 

Later  on  in  the  evening  they  sat  over  the  fire,  and  talked 
over  their  adventure.  June  though  it  was,  they  had  both  been 
tlioi'oughly  chilled. 

'  What  did  you  think  of  when  we  were  in  the  water?'  asked 
Erica. 

'  I  made  a  deep  calculation,'  said  Raeburn,  smiling,  '  and 
found  that  the  sale  of  the  plant  and  of  all  my  books  would 
about  clear  off  the  last  of  the  debts,  and  that  I  should  die  free. 
After  that  I  thought  of  Cicero's  case  of  the  two  wise  men 
struggling  in  the  sea  with  one  plank  to  rescue  them  sufficient 
only  for  one.  They  were  to  decide  which  of  their  lives  was 
most  useful  to  the  republic,  and  the  least  useful  man  was 
to  drop  down  quietly  into  tlie  deep.  It  struck  me  that  you 
and  I  should  hardly  come  to  such  a  calculation.  I  think  we 
would  have  gone  down  together,  little  one  !  What  did  you 
think  ofr 

But  Erica's  thoughts  could  not  so  easdy  be  put  into  words. 


WHAT  IT  INVOLVED.  173 

*  For  one  thing,'  she  said,  *  I  thought  we  should  never  he 
divided  any  more.' 

She  sighed  a  httle  ;  for,  after  all,  the  death  they  had  so 
narrowly  escaped  would  have  been  so  infinitely  easier  than  the 
life  which  lay  before  her. 

'  Clearly  we  are  inseparable  ! '  said  Raeburn.  '  In  that 
sense,  little  son  Eric,  we  can  still  say,  "We  fear  nae  foe  !"' 

Perhaps  the  gentle  words,  and  the  sadness  which  he  could 
not  entirely  banish  from  his  tone,  moved  Erica  almost  more 
than  his  passionate  utterances  in  the  morning. 

The  day  was  no  bad  miniature  of  her  whole  life.  Very  sad, 
very  happy,  full  of  danger,  conflict  and  strife,  warmed  by  out- 
side sympathy,  woimded  by  outside  insolence ! 


CHAPTER    XXL 

WHAT  IT  INVOLVED. 

Stronger  than  steel 

la  the  sword  of  the  spirit ; 

Swifter  than  aiTows 

The  Hfe  of  the  truth  is  ; 

Greater  than  anger 

Is  love,  and  subdueth. 

LONGKELLOW. 

The  two  or  three  days  at  Codrington  lengthened  out  into  a 
week,  for  both  Raeburn  and  Erica  felt  a  good  deal  exhausted 
after  the  eventful  Monday.  Raeburn,  anxious  to  spare  her  as 
miich  as  possible,  himself  wrote  to  Mrs.  Craigie,  and  told  her 
of  Erica's  change  of  views. 

'It  is  a  great  grief,'  he  -wrote,  '  and  she  will  be  a  serious 
loss  to  our  cause,  but  I  am  determined  that  we  will  not  enact 
over  again  the  course  of  action  which  drove  both  you  and  me 
from  home.  Odd  !  that  she  should  just  reverse  our  story  ! 
Anyhow,  you  and  I,  Jean,  have  been  too  much  persecuted  to 
turn  into  persecutors.  The  child  is  as  much  in  earnest  for  her 
delusion  as  we  for  our  truth.  Argument  and  remonstrance  will 
do  no  good,  and  you  must  understand,  and  make  Tom  under- 
stand, that  I'll  not  have  her  bullied.  Don't  think  that  I  am 
trying  to  make  her  mistaken  way  all  easy  for  her.     She  won't 


174  WHAT  IT  INVOLVED. 

find  it  easy.  She  will  have  a  miserable  time  cf  it  with  our  own 
set,  and  how  many  Christians,  do  you  imagine,  will  hold  out  a 
hand  to  Luke  liaeburn's  daughter,  eveu  though  her  views  have 
changed.  Maybe,  half-a-dozen  !  not  more,  I  fancy,  unless  she 
renounced  us  with  atheism,  and  that  she  never  will  do  !  She 
will  be  between  two  fires,  and  I  believe  between  the  two  she 
will  be  worried  to  death  in  a  year  unless  we  can  keep  the  peace 
at  home.  I  don't  blame  Osmond  for  this,  though  at  first  I  did 
suspect  it  was  his  doing  ;  but  this  has  been  no  cram-work. 
Erica  has  honestly  faced  the  questions  herself,  and  has  honestly 
arrived  at  this  mistaken  conclusion.  Osmond's  kindness  and 
generosity  of  course  influenced  her,  but  for  the  rest  they  have 
only  had  the  free  discussions  of  which  from  the  first  I  approved. 
Years  ago  he  said  to  me  plainly,  "  What  if  she  should  see  reason 
to  change  her  mindl'" 

'  I  scouted  the  notion  then,  it  seemed — and  still  seems — 
almost  incredible.  He  has,  you  see,  acted  quite  honourably.  It  is 
Erica's  own  doing.  I  remember  telling  him  that  our  name  of 
Freethinkers  was  a  reality,  and  so  it  shall  still  be  !  She  shall 
be  free  to  think  the  untrue  is  the  true  ;  she  shall  be  free  to 
confess  herself  a  Christian  before  the  whole  world,  though  it 
deal  me  the  hardest  of  blows.' 

This  letter  soon  spread  the  news.  Aunt  Jean  was  too  much 
vexed  and  not  deeply  grieved  enough  to  keep  silence.  Vexation 
finds  some  relief  in  talking,  deep  grief  as  a  rule  prefers  not  to 
speak.  Tom,  in  his  odd  way,  felt  the  defection  of  his  favourite 
cousin  as  much  as  anybody,  except  Raeburn  himself.  They 
had  been  playfellows,  they  had  always  been  like  brother  and 
sister  together,  and  he  was  astounded  to  think  that  Erica  of  all 
people  in  the  world  should  have  deserted  the  cause.  The  letter 
had  come  by  one  of  the  evening  posts.  He  went  out  and  paced 
up  and  down  the  square  in  the  soft  midsummer  twilight,  trying 
to  realise  the  facts  of  the  case.  Presently  he  heard  rapid  steps 
behind  him  ;  no  one  walked  at  that  pace  excepting  Brian,  and 
Tom  was  quite  prepared  to  feel  an  arm  link  itself  within  his. 

'  Hullo,  old  fellow  ! '  exclaimed  Brian.  '  Moonlight  medi- 
tations?' 

'  Where  did  you  drop  from?'  said  Tom,  evasively. 

'  Bi'oken  leg,  round  the  corner — a  public-house  row.  What 
brutes  men  are  !'  exclaimed  the  young  doctor,  hotly. 

'  Disappointing  world  altogether,'  said  Tom,  with  a  sigh. 
'  What  do  you  think  we  have  just  heard  about  Erica  V 

Brian's  heart  almost  stopped  beating  ,«-  he  hardly  knew  what 
he  feared. 


WHAT  IT  INVOLVED.  175 

'  How  can  I  tell  V  lie  answered,  hoarsely.  *  No  bad  news, 
I  hope  V 

'  She's  gone  and  turned  Christian,'  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  disgust. 

Brian  started. 

'Thank  God  !'  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath. 

'  Confound  it ! '  cried  Tom.  '  I  forgot  you'd  be  triumphant. 
Good-night,'  and  he  marched  off  in  high  dudgeon. 

Brian  did  not  even  miss  him.  How  could  he  at  such  a 
time]  The  weight  of  years  had  been  lifted  off  his  soul.  A 
consuming  happiness  took  possession  of  him ;  his  whole  being 
was  a  thanksgiving.  Bj^-and-by  he  went  home,  found  his  father 
in  the  study,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  Charles  Osmond 
put  an  open  letter  into  his  hand.  While  Raeburn  had  written 
to  his  sister.  Erica  had  written  to  her  '  prophet ' — a  sad,  happy, 
quaint  letter  exactly  like  herself.  Its  straightforward  simplicity 
brought  the  tears  to  Brian's  eyes. 

'It  will  be  a  fearful  life  for  her  now  !'  he  exclaimed.  'She 
will  never  be  able  to  endure  it.  Father,  now  at  last  I  may 
surely  speak  to  her  !' 

He  spoke  very  eageidy.     Charles  Osmond  looked  grave. 

'  My  dear  old  fellow,  of  course  you  must  do  as  you  think 
best,'  he  replied,  after  a  minute's  pause ;  '  but  I  doubt  if  it  is 
wise  just  now\' 

'  Why,  it  is  the  very  time  of  all  oLhers  when  she  might  be 
glad  of  me,'  said  Brian. 

'  But  can't  you  see,'  returned  his  father,  '  that  Erica  is  the 
last  girl  in  the  world  to  marry  a  man  because  she  was  unhappy, 
or  because  she  had  got  a  difficult  bit  of  life  in  front  of  her  1 
Of  course,  if  you  really  think  she  cares  for  you,  it  is  different ; 
but ' 

'She  does  not  care  for  me,' said  Brian,  quickly;  'but  in 
time  I  think  she  would.     I  think  I  could  make  her  happy.' 

'  Yes,  I  think  you  could  ;  but  I  fancy  you  will  make  ship- 
wreck of  yoiu"  hopes  if  you  speak  to  her  now.      Have  patience.' 

'I  am  sick  of  patience!'  cried  poor  Brian,  desperately. 
*  Have  I  not  been  patient  for  nearly  seven  years  1  For  what 
would  you  have  me  wait  1  Am  I  to  wait  till,  between  our  in- 
justice to  secularists  and  their  injustice  to  Chi'istians,  she  is 
half-badgered  out  of  life]  If  she  could  but  love  me,  if  she 
would  marry  me  now,  I  could  save  her  from  what  must  be  a 
life  of  misery.' 

'  If  I  could  but  get  you  to  see  it  from  what  I  am  convinced 
is  Erica's  point  of  view  ! '  exclaimed  Charles  Osmond.     '  Forget 


176  WHAT  IT  INVOLVED. 

for  a  minute  that  you  are  her  knight  and  champion,  and  try  to 
see  things  as  she  sees  them.  Let  as  tiy  to  reverse  things. 
Just  imagine  for  a  minute  that  you  are  the  child  of  some  leading 
man,  the  head  and  chief  of  a  party  or  association — we'll  say 
that  you  are  the  child  of  an  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  You 
are  carefully  educated,  you  become  a  zealous  worker,  you  enter 
into  all  your  father's  interests,  you  are  able  to  help  him  in  a 
thousand  ways.  But,  by  slow  degrees,  we  will  say  that  you 
perceive  a  want  in  the  system  in  which  you  have  been  educated, 
and,  after  many  years  of  careful  study  and  thoiight,  you  are 
obliged  to  reject  your  former  beliefs,  and  to  accept  that  other 
system  which  shall  most  recommend  itself  to  you.  We  will 
suppose  for  the  sake  of  analogy  that  you  become  a  secularist. 
Knowing  that  your  change  of  views  will  be  a  terrible  grief  to 
your  father  the  archbishop,  it  takes  your  whole  strength  to 
make  your  confession,  and  you  not  only  feel  your  father's 
personal  pain,  but  you  feel  that  his  pain  will  be  increased  by 
his  public  position.  To  make  it  worse,  too,  we  must  suppose 
that  a  number  of  people  calling  themselves  atheists,  and  in  the 
name  of  atheism,  have  at  intervals  for  the  last  thirty  years 
being  annoying  and  insulting  your  father,  that  in  withstanding 
their  attacks  he  has  often  received  bodily  injury,  and  that  the 
atheists  have  so  often  driven  him  into  the  law  courts  that  he 
has  been  pretty  nearly  beggared.  All  his  privations  you  have 
shared — for  instance,  you  went  with  him  and  lived  for  years  in 
a  poky  little  lodging,  and  denied  yourself  eveiy  single  luxury. 
But  now  you  have,  in  spite  of  all  these  persecutions  carried 
on  in  the  name  of  secularism,  learned  to  see  that  the  highest 
form  of  secularism  is  true.  The  archbishop  feels  this  terribly. 
However,  being  a  very  loving  father,  he  wisely  refuses  to  indulge 
in  perpetual  controversy  with  his  child.  You  agree  still  to  live 
together,  and  each  try  with  all  your  might  to  find  all  the 
possible  points  of  union  still  left  you.  Probably,  if  you  are 
such  a  child  as  I  imagine,  you  love  your  father  ten  times  more 
than  you  did  before.  Then  just  as  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  try  to  be  more  to  him,  when  all  you  care  about  in  life 
is  to  comfort  and  help  him,  and  when  your  heart  is  much 
occupied  with  your  new  opinions,  a  friend  of  yours — a  secularist 
—  comes  to  you,  and  says,  "A  miserable  life  lies  before  you! 
The  atheists  will  never  thoroughly  take  up  with  you  while  you 
live  with  your  father  the  archbishop,  and  of  course  it  is  Avretched 
for  you  to  be  surrounded  by  those  of  another  creed.  Come  with 
me  !  I  love  you — I  will  make  you  happy,  and  save  you  from 
pei'sccution!"* 


WHAT  IT  INVOLVED.  177 

In  spite  of  himself,  Brian  had  smiled  many  times  at  this 
putting  of  an  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  into  the  position  of 
Luke  Raeburn.  But  the  conclusion  arrived  at  seemed  to  him 
to  admit  of  only  one  answer,  and  left  him  very  grave. 

'  You  may  be  right,'  he  said,  very  sadly  'But.  to  stand 
still  and  watch  her  suiFer ' 

He  broke  oft",  unable  to  finish  his  sentence. 

Charles  Osmond  took  it  up. 

'  To  stand  still  and  watch  her  suffer  will  be  the  terribly  hard 
work  of  a  brave  man  who  takes  a  true,  deep  view.  To  rush 
in  with  offers  of  help  would  be  the  work  of  an  impetuous  man 
who  took  a  very  superficial  view.  If  Erica  wei-e  selfish,  I  would 
say  go  and  appeal  to  her  selfishness,  and  marry  her  at  once  ;  for 
selfishness  will  never  do  any  good  in  Guilford  Terrace.  But 
she  is  one  of  the  most  devoted  women  I  know  !  Your  appeal 
would  be  rejected.  I  believe  she  will  feel  herself  in  the  right 
place  there,  and,  as  long  as  that  is  the  case,  nothing  will  move 
her.' 

'  Father,'  said  Brian,  rather  desperately,  '  I  would  take  your 
opinion  before  any  other  opinion  in  the  world.  You  know  her 
Avell — far  better  than  I  do.  TeU  me  honestly — do  3'ou  think 
she  could  ever  love  me.' 

'You  have  given  me  a  hard  task,'  said  Charles  Osmond. 
'  But  you  have  asked  for  my  honest  opinion,  and  you  must  have 
it.  As  long  as  her  father  lives,  I  don't  believe  Erica  will  ever 
love  a  man  well  enough  to  marry  him.  I  remember,  in  my 
young  days,  a  beautiful  gii'l  in  our  neighbourhood,  the  belle  of 
the  whole  county ;  and  years  went  by,  and  she  had  countless 
offers,  but  she  rejected  them  all.  People  used  to  remonstrate 
with  her,  and  ask  her  how  it  was.  "Oh,"  she  used  to  reply, 
"that  is  very  easily  explained.  I  never  see  a  man  I  think 
equal  to  my  own  brothers  ! "  Now,  whatever  faults  Raeburn 
has,  we  may  be  siire  Erica  sees  far  less  plainly  than  we  see,  and 
nobody  can  deny  that  he  is  a  grand  fellow.  When  one  beai's  in 
mind  all  that  he  has  had  against  him,  his  nobility  of  character 
seems  to  me  marvellous.  He  puts  us  to  shame  !  And  that  is 
why  he  seems  to  me  tlio  wholesome  though  powerful  medicine 
for  this  nineteenth  century  of  ours,  with  its  great  professions 
and  its  un-Christlike  lives.' 

*  What  is  the  use  of  patience — what  is  the  use  of  love,' 
exclaimed  Brian,  '  if  I  am  never  to  serve  her  1 ' 

'  Never  !  Who  said  so  ! '  said  his  father,  smiling.  '  Why 
you  have  been  serving  her  every  blessed  day  since  you  first  loved 
her.     Is  unspoken  love  nothing  worth  1     Are  pniyers  useless  ] 


1  78  TVHAT  IT  INVOLVED. 

Is  it  of  no  service  to  let  jour  light  shine  1  But  I  see  how  it  is. 
As  a  doctor,  you  look  upon  pain  as  tlie  one  gi-eat  enemy  to  be 
fought  with,  to  be  bound  down,  to  be  conquered.  You  want  to 
shield  Erica  from  pain,  which  she  can't  be  shielded  from,  if  she 
is  to  go  on  growing. 

"  Knowledge  by  suffering  enteretli !  " 

No  one  would  so  willingly  endoi'se  the  truth  of  that  as  she 
herself !  And  it  will  be  so  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Yoxi 
can't  shut  her  up  in  a  beautiful  casket,  and  keep  her  from  all 
pain !  If  you  could,  she  would  no  longer  be  the  Erica  you 
love.  As  for  the  rest,  I  may  be  wrong.  She  may  have  room 
for  wifely  love  even  now.  I  have  only  told  you  what  I  think. 
And  whether  she  ever  be  yoiir  wife  or  not — and  from  my  heart 
I  hope  she  may  be — your  love  will  in  no  case  be  wasted.  Pure 
love  can't  be  wasted  ;  it's  an  impossibility.' 

Brian  sighed  heavily,  but  made  no  answer.  Presently  he 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  out.  He  walked  on  and  on  without 
the  faintest  idea  of  time  or  place,  occupied  only  with  the  terrible 
struggle  which  was  going  on  in  his  heart,  which  seemed  only 
endurable  with  the  help  of  rapid  and  mechanical  exercise. 
When  at  length  he  came  to  himself,  he  was  miles  away  from 
home,  right  down  at  Shepherd's  Bush,  and  he  heard  the  church 
clocks  striking  twelve.  Then  he  turned  back,  and  walked  home 
more  quietly,  his  resolution  made. 

If  he  told  Erica  of  his  love,  and  she  refused  him  now,  he 
should  not  only  add  to  her  troubles,  but  he  should  inevitably 
put  an  end  to  the  comfort  of  the  close  friendship  which  now 
existed  between  the  two  families.     He  would  keep  silence. 

Erica  and  her  father  returned  on  the  Saturday,  and  then 
began  a  most  trying  time.  Tom  seemed  to  shrink  from  her 
just  as  he  had  done  at  the  time  of  her  mother's  death.  He 
was  shy  and  vexed,  too,  and  kept  as  much  out  of  her  way  as 
possible.  Mrs.  Craigie,  on  the  contrary,  could  not  leave  her 
alone.  In  spite  of  her  brother's  words,  she  tried  every  possible 
argument  and  remonstrance  in  tlie  hope  of  re-convincing  her 
ncice.  With  the  best  intentions,  she  was  often  grossly  unfair, 
and  Erica,  with  a  naturally  quick  temper,  and  her  Baeburn 
inheritance  of  fluency  and  satire,  found  her  patience  sorely 
tried.  Raeburn  was  excessively  busy,  and  they  saw  very  little 
of  him  ;  perhaps  he  thought  it  expedient  that  Erica  should 
fight  her  own  battles,  and  fully  realise  the  seriousness  of  the 
steps  she  had  taken. 

'  Have  you  thought,'  urged  Mrs.  Craigie,  as  a  last  argument 


WHAT  IT  INVOLVED,  1 79 

—'have  you  thought  what  offence  you  will  give  to  our  whole 
party  ?  What  do  you  think  they  will  say  when  they  learn  that 
you  of  all  people  have  deserted  the  cause  1 ' 

The  tears  started  to  Erica's  eyes,  for  naturally  she  did  feel 
this  a  great  deal.  But  she  answered  bravely,  a.nd  with  a  sort 
of  ring  in  her  voice,  which  made  Tona  look  up  from  his  news- 
paper. 

'  They  will  know  that  Luke  Eacbum's  daughter  must  be 
true  to  her  convictions,  at  whatever  cost.' 

'  Will  you  go  on  writing  in  the  Idol  ?  asked  Tom,  for  the 
first  time  making  an  observation  to  her  which  was  not  altogether 
necessary. 

'  No,'  said  Erica — '  how  can  1 1 ' 

Tom  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  made  no  further  remark. 

'  Then  how  do  you  mean  to  live  1  How  else  can  you  support 
yourself  ? '  asked  Aunt  Jean. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Erica.  'I  must  get  some  other  work — 
somewhere.' 

But  her  heart  failed  her,  though  she  spoke  firmly.  She 
knew  that  to  find  work  in  London  was  no  easy  matter. 

*  Offer  yourself  to  the  Church  Chronicle,'  said  Mrs.  Craigie, 
sarcastically,  '  or,  better  still,  to  the  Watch  Dog.  They  always 
make  a  good  deal  of  capital  out  of  a  convert.' 

Erica  coloured  and  had  to  bite  her  lip  hard  to  keep  back 
the  quick  retort  which  occurred  to  her  all  too  naturally. 

By-and-by  Mr.  Masterman  and  another  well-known  secularist 
walked  in.  They  both  knew  of  Erica's  defection.  Mr.  Master- 
man  attacked  her  at  once  in  a  sort  of  bantering  way. 

'  So,  Miss  Raeburn,  now  I  understand  why  some  time  ago 
you  walked  out  in  the  middle  of  my  lecture  one  evening.' 

And  then  followed  a  most  ii-ritatiug  semi-serious  remon- 
strance, in  questionable  taste.  Erica  writhed  under  it.  A 
flippant  canvassing  of  her  most  private  and  sacred  thoughts 
was  hard  to  bear,  but  she  held  her  ground,  and,  being  not  with- 
out a  touch  of  her  father's  dignity,  Mr.  Masterman  presently 
beat  a  retreat,  not  feeling  quite  so  well  satisfied  with  himself  as 
usual.  His  companion  did  not  allude  directly  to  her  change  of 
views,  but  treated  her  with  a  sort  of  pitying  condescension,  as 
if  she  had  been  a  mild  lunatic. 

There  was  some  soi-t  of  committee  being  held  in  the  study 
that  evening.  The  next  person  to  arrive  was  Professor  Gosse, 
and  almost  immediately  after  came  Mr.  Harmston,  a  charming 
old  man,  whom  Erica  had  known  from  her  childhood.  They 
came  in  and  had  some  coffee  before  going  in  to  the  study.     Mra. 


180  WHAT  IT  INVOLVED. 

Craigie  talked  to  Mr.  Harmston.  Erica,  looking  her  loveliest, 
waited  on  them.  Tom  Avatchcd  them  all  philosophically  from 
the  hearthmg. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  have  deserted  your  colours,'  said 
the  professor,  looking  more  grave  than  she  had  ever  seen  him 
look  before.  Then,  his  voice  softening  a  little  as  he  looked  at 
her,  '  I  expect  it  all  comes  of  that  illness  of  yours.  I  believe 
religion  is  just  an  outgrowth  of  bad  health — mens  sana  in 
corpore  sano,  you  know.  Never  mind,  you  must  still  come  to 
my  workshop,  and  I  shall  sec  if  science  won't  re-convert  you.' 

He  moved  away  with  his  good-humoured,  shaggy-looking 
fate,  leaving  Erica  to  old  Mr.  Harmston. 

'  I  am  much  grieved  to  hear  this  of  you,  Erica,'  he  said, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  bringing  his  grey  head  near  to  hers — 
'  as  grieved  as  if  you  were  my  own  child.  You  will  be  a  sore 
loss  to  us  all.' 

Erica  felt  this  keenly,  for  she  was  very  fond  of  the  old 
man. 

'  Do  you  think  it  does  not  hurt  me  to  grieve  you  all "? '  she 
said  piteously.     '  But  one  must  be  honest.' 

'  Quite  right,  my  dear,'  said  the  old  man,  '  but  that  does 
not  make  our  loss  the  less  heavy.  We  had  hoped  great  things 
of  you,  Erica.  It  is  grievous  to  me  that  you  should  have 
fallen  back  to  the  miserable  superstitions  against  which  your 
father  has  fought  so  bravely.' 

'  Come,  Mr.  Harmston,'  said  the  professor ;  we  are  late,  I 
fancy. 

And  before  Erica  could  make  any  reply,  Mrs.  Craigie  and 
the  two  visitors  had  adjourned  to  the  committee-room,  leaving 
her  alone  with  Tom. 

Now,  for  two  or  three  days  Erica  had  been  enduring  Tom's 
coldness  and  Mrs.  Craigie's  unceasing  remonstrances;  all  the 
afternoon  she  had  been  having  a  long  and  painful  disciTSsion 
with  her  friend,  Mrs.  MacNaughton  ;  this  evening  she  had  seen 
plainly  enough  what  her  position  would  be  for  the  future 
among  all  her  old  acqiiaintances,  and  an  aching  sense  of 
isolation  filled  her  heart.  She  was  just  going  to  i-un  upstairs 
and  yield  to  her  longing  for  darkness  and  quiet,  when  Tom 
called  her  back.  She  could  not  refuse  to  hear,  for  the  coldness 
of  her  old  playmate  had  made  her  veiy  sad,  but  she  turned 
back  rather  reluctantly,  for  her  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears. 

'  Don't  go,'  said  Tom,  quite  in  his  natural  voice.  '  Have 
you  any  coffee  for  me,  or  did  the  old  fogies  finish  it  'I ' 

Erica  went  back  to  the  table  and  poured  him  out  a  cnp  of 


WHAT  IT  INVOLVED.  181 

coffee  ;  but  her  hand  trembled,  and,  before  she  could  prevent 
it,  down  splashed  a  great  tear  into  the  saucer. 

'  Come  ! '  said  Tom,  cheerfully.  '  Don't  go  and  spoil  my 
coffee  with  salt  water  !  All  very  well  for  David,  in  a  peni- 
tential psalm,  to  drink  tears,  but  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
you  know ' 

Erica  began  to  laugh  at  this,  a  fatal  proceeding,  for  after- 
wards came  a  great  sob,  and  the  tears  came  down  in  good 
earnest.  Philosophical  Tom  always  professed  great  contempt 
for  tears,  and  he  knew  that  Erica  must  be  very  much  moved 
indeed  to  cry  in  his  presence,  or,  indeed,  to  cry  at  all ;  for,  as 
he  expressed  it,  '  It  was  not  in  her  line.'  But  somehow,  when 
for  the  first  time  he  saw  her  cry,  he  did  not  feel  contemptuous; 
instead,  he  began  to  call  himself  a  '  hard-hearted  brute,'  and  a 
'  narrow-minded  fool,'  and  to  feel  miserable  and  out  of  conceit 
with  himself. 

'  I  say.  Erica,  don't  cry,'  he  pleaded.  '  Don't,  I  say,  I  can't 
bear  to  see  you.  I've  been  a  cold-blooded  WTetch — I'm  awfully 
sorry ! ' 

'  It's  very  cowardly  of  me,'  sobbed  Erica.  'But — but — '  with 
a  rush  of  tears,  '  you  don't  know  how  I  love  you  all — it's  like 
being  killed  by  inches.' 

'You're  not  cowardly,'  said  Tom,  warmly.  'You've  been 
brave  and  plucky  ;  I  only  wish  it  were  in  a  better  cause.  Look 
here,  Erica,  only  stop  crying,  and  promise  me  that  you'll  not 
take  this  so  dreadfully  to  heart.  I'll  stand  by  you—  I  will, 
indeed,  even  though  I  hate  your  caiise.  But  it  shan't  come 
between  us  any  longer,  the  hateful  delusion  has  spoilt  enough 
lives  already,     It  shan't  spoil  ours  ! ' 

'  Oh,  don't  i '  cried  Erica,  wounded  anew  by  this. 

*  Well,'  said  Tom,  gidping  down  his  longing  to  inveigh 
against  Christianity,  '  it  goes  hard  with  me  not  to  say  a  word 
against  the  religion  that  has  brought  us  all  our  misery,  but  for 
your  sake  I'll  try  not  when  talking  with  you.  Now  let  us 
begin  again  on  the  old  footing.' 

'  Not  quite  on  the  old  footing  either,'  said  Erica,  who  had 
conquered  her  tears.  '  I  love  you  a  thousand  times  more,  you 
dear  old  Tom.' 

And  Tom,  who  was  made  of  sterling  stuff,  did  from  that 
day  forward  stand  by  her  through  everything,  and  checked 
himself  when  harsh  words  about  religious  matters  rose  to  his 
lips,  and  tried  his  best  to  smooth  what  could  not  fail  to  be  a 
rough  bit  of  walking. 

The  first  meeting  between  Charles  Osmond  and  Erica,  after 


182  WHAT  IT  INVOLVED, 

her  return  from  Codrington,  did  not  come  about  till  tlie 
morning  after  her  conversation  Avith  Tom.  They  had  each 
called  on  the  other,  but  had  somehow  managed  to  miss. 
When  at  length  Erica  was  shown  into  the  study,  connected  in 
Iier  mind  with  so  many  warm  discussions,  she  found  it  empty. 
She  sat  down  in  the  great  arm-chair  by  the  window,  wondering 
if  she  were  indeed  the  same  Erica  who  had  sat  there  years 
before,  on  the  day  when  her  '  prophet '  had  foi'etold  her  illness. 
What  changes  had  come  about  since  then  ! 

But  her  'prophet'  was  unchanged,  his  brisk,  'Well,  Erica!' 
was  exactly  what  it  had  been  when  she  had  come  to  him  in  the 
days  of  her  atheism.  It  had  always  been  full  of  welcome  and 
sympathy,  and  now  the  only  difference  was  that  a  great  happi- 
ness shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  came  forward  with  his  soft,  steady 
tread  and  took  her  hand  in  both  his. 

They  sat  silent  for  a  while,  then  talked  a  little  but  re- 
servedly, for  both  felt  that  the  subject  which  filled  their 
thoughts  was  at  once  too  sacred  and  too  personal  to  be  alto- 
gether put  into  words.  Then  by-and-by  they  began  to  discuss 
tlie  practical  consequences  of  the  change,  and  especially  the 
great  ditficulty  as  to  Erica's  means  of  supporting  herself. 

'  Could  you  not  tiy  teaching  1 '  said  Charles  Osmond. 

'  The  market  is  already  overstocked.' 

'  True,  but  I  should  think  that  your  brains  and  certificates 
ought  to  secure  you  work  in  spite  of  that.' 

'I  should  like  it  in  many  ways,'  said  Erica,  'but,  you  see, 
except  at  the  night-school  it  is  out  of  the  question,  and  I  could 
not  live  upon  my  grant  even  if  every  one  of  my  class  passed 
the  examination.  For  any  other  sort  of  teaching, — who  do  you 
imagine  would  have  the  courage  to  employ  any  one  bearing  the 
name  of  Kaeburn  1  Why,  I  can't  give  an  order  in  a  shop 
without  being  looked  all  over  by  the  person  who  takes  the 
address.  No,  governessing  would  be  all  very  well  if  one  might 
assume  a  no7n  de  gnerre,  but  that  would  not  do,  you  see.' 

'  You  couldn't  find  work  of  that  sort  among  your  own  set,  I 
suppose ] ' 

'  Not  now,'  said  Erica.  '  You  see,  naturally  enough,  I  am 
very  much  out  of  favour  with  them  all.' 

'  Falling  between  two  stools,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  half  to 
himself.  '  But  don't  lose  heart,  Erica ;  "A  stone  that  is  fit  for 
the  wall  will  not  be  left  in  the  way ;"  there  is  work  for  you 
somewhere.  By  the  way,  I  might  see  old  Crutchlcy  — he 
knows  all  the  literary  folk,  and  might  get  you  an  introduction 
to  some  one,  at  any  rate.' 


AN  EDITOR.  183 

Just  as  Erica  Avas  leaving,  Brian  came  in  from  his  rounds, 
And  they  mot  at  the  door.  Had  he  known  her  trouble  and 
perplexity  as  to  work,  no  power  on  earth  could  have  induced 
him  to  keep  silence  any  longer  ;  but  he  knew  nothing.  She 
looked  a  little  pale,  but  that  was  natural  enougli,  and  in  her 
eyes  he  could  see  a  peace  which  he  had  never  seen  there  before. 
Then  deep  unselfish  happiness  filled  his  heai't  again,  and  Erica 
recognised  in  his  greeting  a  great  deal  more  than  an  ordinary 
bystander  would  have  seen.  She  went  away  feeling  bettered 
by  that  hand-clasp. 

'  That  is  a  downright  good  man  1 '  she  thought  to  herself. 
'Perhaps  by  the  time  he's  fifty-five  he'll  be  almost  equal  to  his 
father.' 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AN  EDITOR. 

Socrates.  —  How   singular  is   the   thing  called  pleasure,   and  how 

curiously  related  to  pain,  which  might  be  thought  to  be  the  opi^osite  ;  for 

they  never  come  to  a  man  together,  and  yet  he  who  pursues  either  of 

them  is  generally  compelled  to  take  the  other.     They  are  two,  and  yet 

they  grow  together  out  of  one  head  or  stem  ;  and  I  cannot  help  thinking 

that,  if  Jilsop  had  noticed  them,  he  would  have  made  a  fable  about  God 

trying  to  reconcile  their  strife,  and  when  he  could  not,  he  fastened  their 

heads  together ;   and  this  is  the  reason  why  whoa  one  comes  the  other 

follows.  _ 

Plato. 

That  Erica  should  live  any  longer  upon  the  money  which  her 
fixther  chiefly  made  by  the  dissemination  of  views  with  which 
she  disagreed  was  clearly  impossible,  at  least  impossible  to  one 
of  her  sincere  and  thorough  nature.  But  to  find  work  was 
very  difficult  indeed.  After  an  anxious  waiting  and  searching, 
she  was  one  day  surprised  by  receiving  through  Charles 
Osmond's  friend,  Mr.  Crutchley,  an  introduction  to  the  editor 
of  a  well-known  and  widely-read  paper.  Every  one  congratu- 
lated her,  but  she  could  not  feel  very  hopeful,  it  seemed  too 
good  to  prove  true  —  it  was,  in  fact,  so  exactly  the  position 
which  she  would  herself  have  chosen  that  it  seemed  unlikely  it 
should  ever  really  be  hers.  Still  of  course  she  hoped,  and 
arrangements  were  made  for  an  interview  with  Mr.  Bircham 
editor  and  part-proprietor  of  the  Daily  Review. 

Accordingly,  one  hot  summer  morning  Erica  dressed  herself 


184:  AN  EDITOR. 

carefully,  tried  to  look  old  and  serious,  and  set  off  with  Tom  to 
the  city. 

'  I'll  see  you  safe  to  the  door  of  the  lion's  den,'  said  Tom,  as 
tliey  made  their  way  along  the  crowded  streets.  '  I  only  wish 
I  could  be  under  the  table  during  the  interview ;  I  should  lilie 
to  see  you  doing  the  dignified  journalist.' 

'  I  wouldn't  laave  you  for  the  world  ! '  said  Erica,  laughing. 
Then,  growing  grave  again,  '  Oh,  Tom !  how  I  wish  it  were 
over  !  it's  woi-se  than  three  hundred  visits  to  a  dentist  rolled 
into  one ! ' 

'  Appalling  prospect ! '  said  Tom.  '  I  can  exactly  picture 
what  it  will  be!  Bircham!  such  a  forbidding  name  for  an 
editor  !  He'll  be  a  sort  of  editorial  Mr,  Squeers  ;  he'll  talk  in 
a  loud,  blustering  way,  and  you'll  feel  exactly  like  a  journalistic 
Smike.' 

'  No,'  said  Erica,  laughing.  '  He'll  be  a  neat  little  dapper 
man,  very  smooth  and  bland,  and  he'll  talk  patronisingly  and 
raise  my  hopes,  and  then,  in  a  few  days'  time  will  send  me  a 
polite  refusal.' 

'  Tell  him  at  once  that  you  hero-worship  Sir  Michael 
Cunningham,  the  statesman  of  the  age,  the  most  renowned 
"  Sly  Bacon  ! " ' 

'  Tom,  do  be  quiet ! '  said  Erica.  I  wish  you  had  never 
thought  of  that  horrid  name.' 

'Horrid!  I  mean  to  make  my  fortxme  out  of  it.  If  you 
like,  you  can  offer  the  pun  on  reasonable  terms  to  Mr. 
Bircham.' 

'  Why,  this  is  Fleet  Street !  doesn't  it  lead  out  of  this  % ' 
said  Erica,  with  an  indescribable  feeling  in  the  back  of  her 
neck.     '  We  must  be  quite  near.' 

'  Nearer  than  near,'  said  Tom.  '  Now  then,  left  wheel  ! 
Here  we  are,  you  see  !  It's  a  mercy  that  yo\i  turn  pink  with 
fright,  not  green  like  the  sea-green  Robespierre.  Go  in  looking 
as  pretty  as  that,  and  Mr.  Squeers  will  graciously  accept  your 
services,  unless  lie's  sand-blind.' 

'  What  a  tease  you  are  !  Do  be  quiet ! '  implored  Erica. 
And  then,  in  what  seemed  to  her  an  alarmingly  short  time,  she 
was  actually  left  by  herself  to  beard  the  lion,  and  a  clerk  was 
assuring  her  that  Mr.  Bircham  was  in,  and  would  she  walk 
upstairs. 

For  reasons  best  know  to  himself,  the  editor  of  the  Daily 
Review  had  his  private  room  at  the  very  top  of  the  house.  A 
sedate  clerk  led  the  way  up  a  dingy  staircase,  and  Erica  toiled 
after  him,  wondering  how  much  breath  she  shoidd  have  left  by 


AN  EDITOR.  185 

the  time  she  reached  the  end.  On  one  of  the  landings  she 
caught  sight  of  a  sandy  cat  and  felt  a  little  reassured  at 
meeting  such  an  everyday  creature  in  this  grim  abode ;  she 
gave  it  a  furtive  stroke  as  she  passed,  and  ■n'ould  have  felt  it  a 
protection  if  she  could  have  picked  it  uj:)  and  taken  it  ■nith  her. 
That  would  have  been  undignified,  however,  and  by  the  time 
she  reached  the  editor's  room  only  a  very  observant  person 
could  have  discovered  in  her  frank,  self-possessed  manner,  any 
trace  of  nei'vousness. 

So  different  was  Mr.  Bircham  from  their  preconceived 
notions  that  she  could  almost  have  laughed  at  the  contrast. 
He  was  very  tall  and  pompous,  he  wore  a  lank  brown  wig 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  come  off  at  any  moment,  he  had 
little  keen  grey  eyes  which  twinkled,  and  a  broad  mouth  which 
shut  very  closely ;  whether  it  was  grim  or  humorovis  she  could 
not  quite  decide.  He  was  sitting  in  a  swivel  chair,  and  the 
table  strewn  with  letters,  and  the  desk,  with  its  pigeon-holes 
crammed  with  papers,  looked  so  natural  and  so  like  her  father's 
that  she  began  to  feel  a  reassiiring  sense  of  fellowship  with 
this  entire  stranger.  The  inevitable  paste-pot  and  scissors,  the 
piles  of  newspapers,  the  books  of  reference,  all  looked  homelike 
to  her. 

Mr.  Bircham  rose  and  bowed  rather  formally,  motioned  her 
to  a  seat,  and  swung  round  his  own  seat  so  that  they  faced 
one  another.  Then  he  scanned  her  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
sort  of  appraising  glance  to  which  she  was  only  too  well  accus- 
tomed— a  glance  which  said  as  plainly  as  words,  '  Oh  !  so  you 
are  that  atheist's  daughter,  are  you  1 ' 

But,  whatever  impression  Erica  made  upon  Mr.  Bircham, 
not  a  muscle  of  his  face  altered,  and  he  began  to  discuss 
business  in  a  most  formal  and  business-like  way.  Things  did 
not  seem  very  hopeful,  and  Erica  began  to  doubt  more  and 
more  whether  she  had  the  smallest  chance  of  acceptance. 
Something  in  the  dry  formal  manner  of  the  editor  struck  a 
chill  to  her  heart.  So  much,  so  very  much  depended  on  this 
interview,  and  already  the  prospect  seemed  far  from  hopeful. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  your  work,'  observed  Mr. 
Bircham.  '  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  in 
Mr.  liaeburn's  organ  ] ' 

'  For  the  last  five  years,'  said  Erica. 

Mr.  Bircham  lifted  his  shaggy  eyebrows  at  this,  for  Erica 
looked  even  j'ounger  than  she  really  was.  However,  he  made 
no  comment,  but  took  up  the  end  of  a  speaking-tube. 

'  Send  up  Jones  with  the  file  of  Idol-Breakers  I  ordered.' 
9 


186  AN  EDITOR. 

Erica's  colour  rose.  Presently  the  answer  from  the  lower 
regions  appeared  in  the  shape  of  the  sedate  clerk  carrying  a 
great  bundle  of  last  year's  Idol-Brealcers. 

'  Perhaps  yon  will  show  me  one  or  two  of  your  average 
articles,'  said  Mr.  Bircham,  and,  Avhile  Erica  searched  through 
the  bundle  of  papers,  he  took  up  one  of  the  copies  which  she 
had  put  aside,  and  studied  the  outside  page  critically.  '  The 
Idol-Brealer  :  Advocate  of  Freethought  and  Secularism.  Editod 
by  Luke  Raeburn.' 

'  They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  tlirce.' 

Mr.  Bircham  put  it  down  and  began  to  watch  her  atten- 
tively. She  was  absorbed  in  her  search,  and  was  quite  un- 
conscious of  his  scrutiny.  Even  had  she  noticed  him,  she 
would  not  have  understood  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  His 
little  grey  eyes  grew  bright ;  then  he  pushed  back  his  wig 
impatiently  ;  then  he  cleared  his  throat ;  finally  he  took  snutf, 
sneezed  violently,  and  walked  to  the  window.  When  he  re- 
tm-ned,  he  was  even  more  dry  and  formal  than  before. 

'  These,  I  think,  are  fairly  representative,'  said  Erica.  '  I 
have  marked  them  in  the  margin.' 

He  took  the  three  or  four  copies  she  handed  to  him,  and 
began  to  look  through  one  of  the  articles,  muttering  a  sentence 
half-aloud  every  now  and  then,  and  making  little  ejacvilations 
which  might  have  been  either  of  approval  or  disapproval. 

Finally  the  interview  ended.  Mr.  Bircham  put  down  the 
papers  with  a  sigh  of  utter  weariness.  Erica  thought. 

'Well,  Miss  Raeburn,'  he  remarked,  'I  will  look  at  one  or 
two  of  your  other  articles,  and  will  communicate  with  you  in  a 
few  days'  time.' 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  her  with  frigid  politeness,  and  in 
another  minute  she  was  slowly  making  her  way  down  the 
dingy  .staircase.  Partly  from  the  reaction  after  her  excite- 
ment, partly  from  mental  worry  and  physical  weariness,  she 
felt  by  the  time  she  was  fairly  out  of  the  office  as  if  she  could 
hardly  drag  herself  along.  Her  heart  was  like  lead,  blank  loss 
of  hope  and  weary  anxiety  as  to  the  next  effort  to  be  made 
were  weighing  her  down.  She  was  naturally  high-spirited,  but 
when  high  spirited  people  do  get  depressed,  they  go  down  to 
the  very  decjjcst  depths ;  and  her  interview  with  Mr.  Bircham, 
by  its  dry  chcerlessness,  by  its  lack  of  human  interest,  had 
chilled  her  all  through.  If  he  had  even  made  a  remark  on  the 
weather,  she  thought  she  could  have  liked  him  better  ;  if  ho 


AN  EDITOR.  187 

had  expressed  an  opinion  on  any  subject,  even  if  she  had  dis- 
agreed with  him,  it  would  have  been  a  relief;  as  it  was,  he 
seemed  to  her  more  like  a  hard  steel  pen  dressed  in  broadcloth 
than  a  man. 

As  to  his  last  remark,  that  could  only  mean  one  thing. 
He  did  not  like  to  tell  her  to  her  face  that  she  would  not  suit 
him,  but  he  would  communicate  with  her  in  a  few  days,  and 
say  it  comfortably  on  paper. 

She  had  never  felt  quite  so  desolate  and  forelorn  and  help- 
less as  she  felt  that  day  when  she  left  the  Daily  Review  office, 
and  found  herself  in  the  noise  and  bustle  of  Fleet  Street.  The 
mid-day  sun  blazed  down  upon  her  in  all  its  strength  ;  the 
pavements  seemed  to  scorch  her  feet ;  the  w^eary  succession  of 
hurrying,  pushing,  jostling  passengers  seemed  to  add  to  her 
sense  of  isolation.  Presently  a  girl  stopped  her,  and  asked  the 
way  to  Basinghall  Street.  She  knew  it  well  enough,  but  felt 
too  utterly  stupid  to  direct  her. 

'  You  had  better  ask  a  policeman,' slie  replied,  wearily. 

Then,  recollecting  that  she  had  several  commissions  to  do 
for  her  father,  besides  a  great  deal  to  do  at  the  Stores,  she 
braced  herself  up,  and  tried  to  forget  Mr.  Bircham,  and  to  devote 
her  whole  mind  to  the  petty  details  of  shopping. 

The  next  evening  she  was  in  the  study  with  her  father  when 
Tom  brought  in  a  bundle  of  letters.  One  of  them  was  for 
Erica.  She  at  once  recognised  Mr.  Bircham's  writing,  and  a 
new  pang  of  disappointment  shot  through  her,  though  she  had 
really  lost  all  hope  on  the  previous  day.  This  very  speedy 
communication  could  only  mean  that  his  mind  had  been  practi- 
cally made  up  before.  She  began  to  think  of  her  next  chance, 
of  the  next  quarter  she  must  try,  and  slowly  opened  the  un- 
welcome letter.  But  in  a  moment  she  had  sprang  to  her 
feet  in  an  ecstasy  of  happiness. 

'  Oh,  father  !  oh,  Tom  !  he  will  have  me  ! ' 

Raeburn  looked  up  from  his  correspondence,  and  together 
they  read  ]\Ir.  Bircham's  letter.  It  was  quite  as  business-like 
as  he  himself  had  been  at  the  interview. 

'  Dear  Madam, 

'Having  fully  considered  the  matter,  we  are 
prepared  to  offer  you  a  place  on  our  staff.  The  work  required 
was  explained  to  you  yesterday.  For  this  we  offer  a  salary  of 
200^.  j)er  annum.  Should  you  signify  your  acceptance  of  these 
terms,  we  will  send  you  our  usual  form  of  agreement. 

*  I  am  yours  faithfully, 
•ToMiss  Raeburx,'  '  'Jacob  Biiiciiam. 


188  ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

'  Commend  me  to  people  who  don't  raise  one's  expectations  !  * 
said  Erica,  rapturously.  '  Three  cheers  for  my  dear,  stiff  old 
editor ! ' 

So  that  anxiety  was  over,  and  Erica  was  most  thankful  to 
have  such  a  load  taken  off  her  mind.  The  comfort  of  it  helped 
her  throi;gh  a  very  trying  summer. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE. 


Isabel. — I  have  spirit  to  do  anything  that  appears  not  foul  in  the  truth 

of  my  spirit. 
Ddke. — Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

It  was  the  first  of  September.  Watering-places  were  crowded 
with  visitors,  destruction  had  begun  among  the  partridges, 
and  a  certain  portion  of  the  hard-working  community  were 
taking  their  annual  holiday. 

Raeburn,  whose  holidays  were  few  and  far  between,  had 
been  toiling  away  all  through  tlie  summer  months  in  town. 
This  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  stifling  little  study,  he  had  fallen 
into  a  blank  fit  of  depression.  He  could  neither  work  nor  read. 
Strong  as  his  nature  was,  it  was  not  always  proof  against  this 
grim  demon,  which  avenged  itself  on  him  for  overtasking  his 
brain,  shortening  his  hours  of  sleep,  and  in  other  ways  sacrificing 
himself  to  his  work.  To-night,  however,  there  was  reason  for 
his  depression;  for  while  he  sat  fighting  his  demon  at  home, 
Erica  had  gone  to  Charles  Osmond's  church — it  was  the  evening 
of  her  baptism. 

Of  course  it  was  the  necessary  sequence  of  the  confession 
she  had  made  a  few  months  befox'e,  and  Raeburn  had  long 
known  that  it  was  inevitable  ;  but  none  the  less  did  he  this 
evening  suffer  more  acutely  than  he  had  yet  suffered,  i-ealising 
more  fully  his  child's  defection.  The  private  confession  had 
startled,  shocked,  grieved  him  inexpressibly ;  but  the  public 
profession,  with  its  sense  of  irrevocableness,  filled  his  heart 
with  a  grief  for  which  he  could  find  no  single  ray  of  comfort. 

Erica's  brave  endurance  of  all  the  trials  and  discomforts 
involved  in  her  change  of  faith  had  impressed  him  not  a  little, 
and  even  when  most  hurt  and  annoyed  by  her  new  views,  he 
had  always  tried  to  shield  her;  but  it  had  been  a  hard  summer, 
and  the  loss  of  the  home  unity  had  tried  liim  sorely. 

Moreover,  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  last  year  was  now 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE.  189 

ended.  A  new  foe  had  arisen  in  the  person  of  a  certain  retired 
cheesemonger,  who  had  sworn  war  to  the  knife  against  the 
apostle  of  atheism.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Pogson's  war  wasn  ot 
undertaken  in  a  Christ-like  spirit ;  his  zeal  was  fast  changing 
into  personal  animosity,  and  he  had  avowed  that  he  would  ciaish 
Raeburn,  tliough  it  should  cost  him  the  whole  of  his  fortune. 
This  very  day  he  had  brought  into  action  the  mischievous  and 
unfair  blasphemy  laws,  and  to  everybody's  amazement,  had 
commenced  a  prosecution  against  Raeburn  for  a  so-called  'blas- 
phemous libel '  in  one  of  his  recent  pamphlets.  An  attack  on 
the  liberty  of  the  press  was  to  Raeburn  what  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  is  to  the  war-horse.  Yet,  now  that  the  first  excite- 
ment was  over,  he  had  somehow  sunk  into  a  fit  of  black 
depression.  How  was  it  ]  Was  his  strength  failing  1  was  he 
growing  old — unfit  for  his  work  1 

He  was  roused  at  length  by  a  knock  at  his  door.  The 
serv^ant  entered  with  a  number  of  letters.  He  turned  them 
over  mechanically  until  some  handwriting  which  reminded  him 
of  his  mother's  made  him  pause.  The  letter  bore  the  Greyshut 
postmark ;  it  must  be  from  his  sister  IsobeL  He  opened  it 
with  some  eagerness ;  there  had  been  no  communication  be- 
tween them  since  the  time  of  his  wife's  death,  and  though  he 
had  hoped  that  the  correspondence  once  begun  might  have 
been  continued,  nothing  more  had  come  of  it.  The  letter 
proved  short,  and  not  altogether  palatable.  It  began  with 
rejoicings  over  Erica's  change  of  views,  the  report  of  which 
had  reached  Mrs.  Fane-Smith.  It  went  on  to  regret  that  he 
did  not  share  in  the  change.  Raeburn's  lip  curled  as  he  read. 
Then  came  a  request  that  Erica  might  be  allowed  to  visit  her 
relations,  and  the  letter  ended  with  a  kindly-meant  but  mis- 
taken offer. 

'  My  husband  and  I  both  feel  that  there  are  many  ob- 
jections to  Erica's  remaining  in  her  present  home.  We  should 
be  much  pleased  if  she  would  live  with  us — at  any  rate,  until 
she  has  met  with  some  situation  which  would  pi'ovide  her 
with  a  suitable  and  permanent  residence. 

The  offer  was  not  intended  to  be  insulting,  but  undoubtedly, 
to  such  a  father  as  Raeburn,  it  was  a  gross  insult.  His  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  involuntarily  he  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand ; 
then,  a  little  ashamed  of  the  passionate  act,  he  forced  himself 
deliberately  to  smooth  it  out  again,  and,  folding  it  accurately, 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  note  for  Erica  remained  in  the  envelope ; 
he  placed  it  on  the  mantel-piece,  then  fell  back  in  his  chair 
again  and  thought. 


190  ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

After  all,  might  not  the  visit  to  Greyshot  be  a  very  good 
thing  for  her  ]  Of  course  she  would  never  dream  of  living  with 
her  aunt,  would  indeed  be  as  angi*y  at  the  proposal  as  he  had  been. 
But  might  not  a  visit  of  two  or  three  weeks  open  her  eyes  to 
her  new  position,  and  prove  to  her  that  among  Christians  such 
people  as  tlie  Osmonds  were  only  in  the  minority  !  He  knew 
enough  of  society  to  be  able  to  estimate  the  position  it  would  ac- 
cord to  Erica.  He  knew  that  her  sensitiveness  would  be  wounded 
again  and  again,  that  her  honesty  would  be  shocked,  her  belief 
in  the  so-called  Christian  world  shaken.  Might  not  all  this  be 
salutary  ?  And  yet  he  did  not  like  the  thought ;  he  could  not 
bear  sending  her  out  alone  to  fight  her  own  battles,  could  not 
endure  the  consciousness  that  she  was  bearing  his  reproach. 
Oh,  why  had  this  miserable,  desolating  change  ever  occuiTed  ] 
At  this  very  moment  she  was  making  public  profession  of  a 
faith  which  could  only  place  her  in  the  most  trying  of  positions; 
at  this  very  moment  she  was  pledging  herself  to  a  life  of 
bondage  and  trouble  ;  while  he,  standing  aside,  coidd  see  all 
the  dangers  and  difficulties  of  her  future,  and  could  do  absolutely 
nothing ! 

It  reminded  him  of  one  of  the  most  horrible  moments  of  his 
life.  Walking  up  liegent  Street  one  afternoon,  years  ago, 
Erica,  walking  with  Mrs.  Craigie  on  the  opposite  side,  had 
caught  siglit  of  him,  and  regardless  of  the  fourfold  chain  of 
carriages,  had  rushed  across  to  him  with  the  fearless  daring  of 
a  £iix  years'  old  child,  to  whom  the  danger  of  horses'  hoofs  was 
a  mere  nothing  when  compared  with  the  desire  to  get  a  walk  with 
her  father.  His  heart  beat  quicker  even  now  as  he  thought  of 
the  paralysing  dread  of  long  ago,  nor  had  j\liss  Erica  ever  been 
scolded  for  her  loving  rashness ;  in  his  relief  he  had  been 
unable  to  do  anything  but  clasp  the  little  hand  in  his  as  though 
nothing  should  ever  part  them  again. 

But  her  loving  disregard  of  all  danger  and  difficulty  was  no 
longer  inspired  by  love  of  him,  but  by  love  of  what  Baebura 
considered  a  myth  and  a  delusion. 

In  that  lay  the  real  sting.  Her  courage,  her  suffering,  all 
seemed  to  him  wastedj  altogether  on  the  wrong  side.  Once 
more  black  gloom  fell  upon  him.  The  room  grew  dusk — 
then  dark,  but  still  he  remained  motionless. 

Again  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  his  door. 

'  Signor  Civita  wished  to  speak  to  him.' 

He  braced  himself  up  for  an  interview  with  some  stranger, 
and  in  walked  a  foreigner  wi'appcd  in  a  long  cloak,  and  looking 
exceedingly  like  a  stage  brigand. 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE.  191 

He  bowed,  the  brigand  bowed  too,  and  said  something, 
rapid  and  unintelligible,  in  Italian.  Then  glanced  at  the  door 
to  see  that  it  was  safely  closed,  he  made  a  bound  to  the  open 
window  and  shut  it  noiselessly.  Raeburn  quietly  reached  down 
a  loaded  revolver  which  hung  about  the  mantel-piece,  and  cocked 
it,  whereupon  the  brigand  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  laughter,  and 
exclaimed,  in  German, 

'  Why,  my  good  friend  !  do  you  not  know  me  1 ' 

'  Haeberlein  ! '  exclaimed  Racburn,  in  utter  amazement, 
submitting  to  a  German  embrace. 

'  Eric  himself  and  no  other  ! '  returned  the  brigand,  '  Draw 
your  curtains  and  lock  your  door  and  you  shall  see  me  in  the 
flesh.     I  am  half  stifled  in  this  lordly  wig.' 

*  Wait,'  said  Raeburn.     '  Be  cautious.' 

He  left  him  for  a  minute,  and  Haeberlein  heard  him  giving 
orders  that  no  one  else  was  to  be  admttted  that  evening. 
Then  he  came  back,  quietly  bolted  the  door,  closed  the  shutters, 
and  lit  the  gas.  In  the  meantime  his  friend  threw  ofl"  his 
cloak,  removed  the  wig  of  long,  dark  hair,  and  the  drooping 
moustache  and  shaggy  eyebrows,  revealing  his  natural  face  and 
form.     Raeburn  grasped  his  hand  once  more. 

'  Now  I  feel  that  I've  got  you,  Eric  ! '  he  exclaimed.  'What 
lucky  chance  has  bi'ought  you  so  unexpectedly  1 ' 

'  No  lucky  one  ! '  said  Haeberlein,  with  an  expressive  motion 
of  the  shoulders.  '  But  of  that  anon  ;  let  me  look  at  you,  old 
fellow — why  you're  as  white  as  a  miller  !  call  yourself  six-and- 
forty  !  you  might  pass  for  my  grandfather  ! ' 

Raeburn,  who  had  a  large  reserve  fund  of  humour,  caught 
up  his  friend's  black  wig  from  the  table  and  put  it  on  above  hia 
own  thick,  white  hair,  showing  plainly  enough  that  in  face  and 
spirits  he  was  as  young  as  ever.  It  was  seven  years  since  they 
had  met,  and  they  fell  to  talk  of  reminiscences,  and  in  the 
happiness  of  their  meeting  put  off"  the  more  serious  matters 
which  must  be  discussed  before  long.  It  was  a  good  half-hour 
before  Haeberlein  alluded  to  the  occasion  of  his  present  visit. 

'  Being  actually  in  London,  I  couldn't  resist  looking  in  upon 
you,'  he  said,  a  cloud  of  care  coming  over  his  face.  *  I  only 
hope  it  won't  get  you  into  a  scrape.  I  came  over  to  try  to 
avert  this  deplorable  business  about  poor  Kellner — too  late,  I 
fear.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  must  have  blundered  somehow, 
for  my  coming  leaked  out,  and  they  are  on  the  watch  for  me. 
If  I  get  safe  across  to  France  to-night,  I  shall  be  lucky.' 

'  Incautious  as  ever,'  sighed  Raeburn.  '  And  that  Kellner 
richly  deserves  his  fate.     Why  should  you  meddle  V 


192  ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

*  I  was  bound  to,'  said  Haebcrlein.  He  did  me  many  a 
good  turn  during  my  exile,  and,  though  he  has  made  a  grave 
mistake,  yet ' 

'  Yet  you  must  run  your  chivah-ous  head  into  a  halter  fur 
his  sake!'  exclaimed  Ilaebum.  'You  were  ever  Quixote.  I 
shall  live  to  see  you  hanged  yet.' 

Haebei-lein  laughed. 

'  No,  I  don't  think  you  will,'  he  said  cheerfully.  '  I've  had 
some  bad  falls,  but  I've  alwaj^s  fallen  on  my  feet.  With  a  good 
cause,  a  man  has  little  to  fear.' 

'  If  this  were  a  good  cause,'  said  Ilaebum  with  significant 
emphasis.' 

'  It  was  the  least  I  could  do,'  said  Haeberlein,  with  the  chival- 
rous disregard  of  self,  which  was  his  chief  characteristic.  '  I  only 
fear  that  my  coming  here  may  involve  you  in  it — which  heaven 
forefend !  I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  I  iujurcd  your 
reputation. 

Racburn  smiled  rather  bitterly. 

You  need  not  fear  that.  My  reputation  has  long  been  at 
the  mercy  of  all  the  lying  braggarts  in  the  country.  Men  label 
me  socialist  one  day,  individualist  the  next.  I  become  com- 
munist or  egotist,  as  is  most  convenient  to  the  speaker  and 
most  damaging  to  myself.  But  there,'  he  exclaimed,  regaining 
the  tranquil  serenity  which  chai-acterised  him,  '  why  should  I 
rail  at  the  world  when  I  might  be  talking  to  you  1  How  is  my 
old  friend  Hans  ? ' 

The  sound  of  a  key  in  the  latch  startled  them. 

'  It  is  ouly  Erica,'  said  Ilaebum.  '  I  had  forgotten  she  was 
out.' 

'  My  pretty  little  namesake  !  I  should  like  to  see  her.  Is 
she  still  a  zealous  little  atheist  ] ' 

'  Xo,  she  has  become  a  Christian,'  said  Raeburn,  speaking 
with  some  effort. 

'  So  ! '  exclaimed  Haeberlein,  without  further  comment. 
He  himself  was  of  no  particular  creed  ;  he  was  just  indiflerent, 
and  the  zeal  of  his  friend  often  surprised  him. 

Ilaeburn  went  out  into  the  passage,  drew  Erica  into  the 
front  sitting-room,  and  closed  the  door. 

'  There  is  an  old  friend  of  yours  in  my  study,'  he  said. 
'  He  wishes  to  see  you,  but  you  must  promise  secrecy,  for  he  ia 
in  danger.' 

'  Is  it  Herr  Hacbeilcin  1 '  asked  Erica. 

•  Yes,  on  one  of  his  rash,  kindly  errands,  but  one  of  which  I 
don't  approve.     However,  his  work  is  over,  and  we  must  try  to 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE.  193 

get  him  safely  off  to  France.  Come  in  with  me  if  you  will,  but 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it  first,  so  that  you  should  not  be 
mixed  up  with  this  against  your  will,  which  would  be  unfair.' 

'Would  it?'  said  Erica,  smiling,  as  she  slipped  her  hand 
into  his. 

Haberlein  had  taken  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket,  and  was 
searching  for  something.  The  gaslight  fell  on  his  clean-shaven 
face,  revealing  a  sweet-tempered  mouth,  keen  blue  eyes,  a  broad 
German  forehead,  and  closely -cropped  iron-grey  hair.  Erica 
thought  him  scarcely  altered  since  their  last  meeting.  He 
threw  down  his  newspaper  as  she  approached. 

'Well,  my  Ilerzhldttclien !  '  he  exclaimed,  saluting  her  with  a 
double  kiss,  '  so  you  are  not  ashamed  of  your  old  friend  %  So,' 
holding  her  at  arms'  length  and  regarding  her  critically,  '  lion- 
hearted  as  ever,  I  see,  and  ten  thousand  times  prettier.  Potz- 
tausend!  the  English  girls  do  beat  ours  all  to  nothing.  Well, 
my  Liehchen,  dost  thou  remember  the  day  Avhen  thou  carried 
the  Casati  despatches  in  thy  geography  book  under  the  very 
nose  of  a  spy  ?  It  was  a  brave  deed  that,  and  it  saved  a  brave 
man's  life.' 

Erica  smiled  and  coloured.  '  I  was  not  so  brave  as  I 
seemed,'  she  said.  '  My  heart  was  beating  so  loud,  I  thought 
people  must  hear  it.' 

'  Hast  thou  never  heard  the  saying  of  the  first  Napoleon, 
"The  bravest  man  is  he  who  can  conceal  his  fear  !"  I  do  not 
come  under  that  category,  for  I  never  had  fear — never  felt  it. 
Thou  wouldst  not  dream,  Herzbldttchen,  that  spies  are  at  this 
moment  dogging  my  steps  while  I  jest  here  with  thee  V 

'  Is  that  indeed  true]'  exclaimed  Erica. 

They  explained  to  her  a  little  more  of  Haebei-lein's  errand 
and  the  risk  he  ran ;  he  alluded  to  his  hopes  that  Raeburn 
might  not  be  involved  in  any  unpleasant  consequences.  Erica 
grew  pale  at  the  bare  suggestion. 

'  See,'  exclaimed  Haeberlein,  '  the  little  one  cares  more  for 
your  reputation  than  you  do  yourself,  my  friend.  See  what  it 
is  to  have  a  daughter  who  can  be  afraid  for  you,  though  she 
cannot  be  afraid  for  hei-self !  But,  Liehchen,  thou  must,  not 
blame  me  for  coming  to  see  him.  Think  ! — my  best  friend, 
and  unseen  for  seven  years !' 

'  It  is  worth  a  good  deal  of  risk,'  said  Erica,  brightly.  But 
as  the  terror  of  having  her  father's  name  mentioned  in  con- 
nexion Avith  Herr  Ke^^ner's  once  more  returned  to  her,  she 
added,  pleadingly,  'And  you  ivill  be  careful  when  you  leave  the 
house  !' 


ly4  ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

'  Yes,  indeed/  said  Haeberlcin.  '  See  what  a  disguise  I 
have  !' 

He  hastily  donned  the  bhack  wig,  moustache,  and  eyebrows, 
and  the  long  Italian  cloak. 

Erica  looked  at  him  critically. 

'Art  thou  not  satisfied]'  he  asked. 

'  Not  a  bit,'  she  said,  promptly.  '  In  London  every  one 
would  turn  to  look  twice  at  such  a  dress  as  that,  Avliich  is  what 
you  want  to  avoid.  Besides,  those  eyebrows  are  so  outrageous, 
so  evidently  false.' 

She  thought  for  a  minute. 

'  My  brown  Inverness,'  suggested  Raeburn. 

'  Too  thick  for  a  summer  night,'  said  Erica, '  and,' — glancing 
from  her  father  to  Hacbcrlein — '  too  long  to  look  natural.  I 
think  Tom's  ulster  and  travelling-hat  would  be  better.' 

'  Commend  me  to  a  woman  when  you  want  sound  advice  !' 
cried  Haeberlein. 

Erica  went  to  search  Tom's  room  for  the  ulster,  and  in  the 
meantime  Haeberlein  showed  his  friend  a  paragraph  in  one  of 
the  evening  papers  which  proved  to  Raeburn  that  the  risk  was 
indeed  very  great.  They  were  discussing  things  much  more 
gravely  when  Erica  returned. 

*  The  stations  will  be  watched,'  Haeberlein  was  saying. 

*  What  station  do  you  go  to  ?'  asked  Erica. 

'  I  thought  of  trying  Cannon  Street,'  replied  the  German. 

*  Because,'  continued  Erica,  '  I  think  you  had  better  let  me 
see  you  off.  You  will  look  like  a  young  Englishman,  and  I 
shall  do  all  the  talking,  so  that  3'ou  need  not  betray  your  accent. 
They  would  never  dream  of  Herr  Haeberlein  laughing  and 
talking  with  a  young  girl.' 

'  They  would  never  dream  that  a  young  girl  would  be  brave 
enough  to  run  such  a  risk  !'  said  Haebei'lein.  '  No,  my  sweet 
Ilerzhlditchen,  I  could  not  bring  thee  into  danger.' 

'  There  will  be  none  for  me,'  said  Erica,  '  and  it  may  save 
you  from  evil  and  my  fiither  from  suspicion.  Eather,  if  you 
will  let  me,  it  would  be  more  of  a  disguise  than  anything.' 

*  You  might  meet  some  one  you  know,'  said  Raeburn. 

'  Very  unlikely,'  she  replied.  '  And  even  if  I  did,  what 
would  it  matter  1  I  need  not  tell  them  anything,  and  HeiT 
Haeberlein  would  get  off  all  the  same.' 

He  saw  that  she  was  too  pure  and  too  unconventional  to 
understand  his  objection,  but  his  whole  heart  rebelled  against 
the  idea  of  letting  her  undertake  the  task,  and  it  was  only  after 
much  persuasion  that  she  drew  from  him  a  reluctant  consent. 


ERICA  TO  THK  RESCUE.  195 

After  all,  it  would  be  a  great  safeguard  to  Haeborlein,  and 
Haebcrlein  was  his  dearest  friend.  For  no  one  else  could  he 
have  risked  what  was  so  precious  to  him.  There  Avas  very 
little  time  for  discussion.  The  instant  his  permission  was 
given,  Erica  ran  upstairs  to  Tom's  private  den,  lighted  his  gas- 
stove,  and  made  a  cup  of  chocolate,  at  the  same  time 
blackening  a  cork  very  carefully.  In  a  few  minutes  she  re- 
turned to  the  study,  carrying  the  chocolate  and  a  plate  of 
rusks,  which  she  remembered  were  a  particular  weakness  of 
Herr  Haberlein's.  She  found  that  in  her  absence  the  two  had 
been  discussing  matters  again,  for  Haeberleiu  met  her  with 
another  remonstrance. 

^Liehe  Erica,'  he  began,  '  I  yielded  just  now  to  thy  generous 
proposal ;  but  I  think  it  will  not  do.  For  myself  I  can  be  rash, 
but  not  for  thee.  Thou  art  too  frail  and  lovely,  my  little  one, 
to  be  mixed  up  with  the  grim  realities  of  such  a  life  as  mine.' 

She  only  lauglied.  '  Why,  I  have  been  mixed  up  with  them 
ever  since  I  was  a  baby  ! ' 

'  True ;  but  now  it  is  different.  The  world  might  judge 
thee  harshly,  people  might  say  things  which  would  wound 
thee.' 

'"They  say!  Let  them  say!"'  quoted  Erica,  smiling. 
*  Mens  conscia  recti  will  carry  one  through  worse  things  than  a 
little  slander.  No,  no,  you  must  really  let  me  have  my  own 
way.     It  is  right,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ! ' 

Raeburn  let  things  run  their  course ;  he  agreed  with  Erica 
all  the  time,  though  his  heart  impelled  him  to  keep  her  at 
home.  And  as  to  Eric  Haeberlein,  it  would  have  needed  a  far 
stronger  mind  than  that  of  the  sweet-tempered.  Quixotic 
German  to  resist  the  generous  help  offered  by  such  a  lovely 
girl. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose ;  the  latest  train  for  the  con- 
tinent left  at  9.25,  and  before  Haeberlein  had  adjusted  his  new 
disguise  the  clock  struck  nine.  Erica  very  carefully  blackened 
his  eyebrows  and  ruthlessy  sheared  the  long  black  wig  to  an 
ordinary  and  unnoticeable  length,  and,  when  Tom's  ulster  and 
hat  were  added,  the  disguise  Avas  so  perfect,  and  made  Hae- 
berlein look  so  absurdly  young,  that  Haeburn  himself  could 
not  possibly  have  recognised  him. 

In  past  years  Raeburn  had  often  risked  a  great  deal  for  his 
friend.  At  one  time  his  house  had  been  watched  day  and 
night  in  consequence  of  his  well-known  friendship  with  the 
Republican  Don  Quixote.  Unfortunately,  therefore,  it  was 
only  too   probable    that    Haeberlein   in  risking  his  visit  this 


196  ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUB. 

evening  might  have  run  into  a  trap.  If  he  were  being  searched 
for,  his  friend's  house  would  almost  inevitably  be  watched. 

They  exchanged  farewells,  not  without  some  show  of 
emotion  on  each  side,  and  just  at  the  last  Raeburn  hastily  bent 
down  and  kissed  Erica's  forehead,  at  his  heart  a  sickening  sense 
of  anxiety.  She  too  was  anxious,  but  she  was  very  happy  to 
have  found  on  the  evening  of  her  baptism  so  unusual  a  service 
to  render  to  her  father,  and,  besides,  the  consciousness  of 
danger  always  raised  her  spirits. 

When,  as  they  had  half  expected,  they  found  the  Avoiild-be- 
natural-looking  detective  prowling  up  and  down  tiie  cul-de-sac, 
it  was  no  effort  to  her  to  begin  at  once  a  laughing  account  of  a 
school  examination  which  Charles  Osmond  had  told  her  about, 
and  so  naturally  and  brightly  did  she  talk  that,  though  actually 
brushing  past  the  spy  under  the  full  light  of  the  street  lamj?, 
she  entirely  disarmed  suspicion. 

It  was  a  horrible  moment,  however.  Her  heart  beat  wildly 
as  they  passed  on,  and  every  moment  she  thought  she  should 
hear  quick  steps  behind  them.  But  nothing  came  of  it,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  they  were  Avalking  down  Southampton  Row. 
When  this  was  safely  passed,  she  began  to  feel  comparatively 
at  ease.     Haeberlein  thought  they  might  take  a  cab. 

*  Not  a  Hansom,'  she  said,  quickly,  as  he  was  on  the  point 
of  hailing  one.  '  You  would  be  so  much  more  exposed,  you 
know  !' 

Haeberlein  extolled  her  common-sense,  and  they  secured  a 
four-wheeler  and  drove  to  Cannon  Street. 

Talking  now  became  more  possible.  Haberlcin  leant  far 
back  in  the  corner,  and  spoke  in  low  tones. 

'  Thou  hast  been  my  salvation.  Erica,'  he  said,  pressing  her 
hand.  'That  fellow  would  never  have  let  me  pass  in  the 
Italian  costume.  Thou  wert  right  as  usxial,  it  was  theatrical, 
— how  do  you  call, — stagey,  is  it  not !' 

'  I  am  a  little  troubled  about  your  mouth,'  said  Erica, 
smiling,  '  the  moustache  doesn't  disguise  it,  and  it  looks  so 
good-tempered  and  like  itself.  Can't  you  feel  severe  just  for 
half-an-hour]' 

Haeberlein  smiled  his  irresistibly  sweet  smile,  and  tried  to 
comjDly  with  her  wishes,  but  not  very  successfully. 

'  I  think,'  said  Erica,  presently,  '  it  will  be  the  best  way,  if 
you  don't  mind,  for  you  just  to  stroll  through  the  booking- 
office  while  I  take  your  ticket.  I  can  meet  you  by  the  book- 
stall and  I  will  still  talk  for  us  both  iu  case  you  betray  your 
accent.* 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE.  197 

* IlerMdttclien ! '*  exclaimed  Haeberlein.  'how  shall  I  eA-er 
repay  thee  !  Thou  art  a  real  canny  little  Scot !  I  only  wish  I 
Lad  half  thy  caution  and  forethought.' 

'  Don't  look  like  that ! '  said  Erica,  laughing,  as  tlie 
benignant  expression  once  more  came  over  his  lips.  '  You 
really  must  try  to  turn  down  the  corners  !  Your  character  is  a 
silent,  morose  misanthrope.  I  am  the  chatterbox,  pure  and 
simple.' 

They  Avere  both  laughing  when  they  drew  near  to  the 
station,  bvit  a  sense  of  the  risk  sobered  Haeberlein,  and  Erica 
carried  out  her  programme  to  perfection.  It  was  rather  a 
shock  to  her,  indeed,  to  find  a  detective  keenly  inspecting  all 
who  went  to  the  ticket-office.  He  stood  so  close  to  the  pigeon- 
hole that  Erica  doubted  whether  Herr  Haeberlein's  eyebroAvs, 
improved  though  they  were,  could  possibly  have  escaped  de- 
tection. It  required  all  her  self-command  to  prevent  her 
colour  from  rising  and  her  fingers  from  trembling  as  she  receiA'ed 
the  ticket  and  the  change  under  that  steady  scrutiny.  Then 
she  passed  out  on  to  the  platform  and  found  that  Herr  Hae- 
berlein had  been  wise  enough  to  buy  the  paper  which  least 
sympathised  with  his  \deAvs,  and  in  a  feAV  minutes  he  was  safely 
disposed  in  the  middle  of  a  Avell-filled  carriage. 

Erica  took  out  her  watch.  There  were  still  three  minutes 
before  the  train  started,  three  long,  interminable  minutes  ! 
she  looked  down  the  platform,  and  her  heart  died  Avithin  her ; 
for,  steadily  advancing  tOAvards  them,  she  saAV  tAvo  men  making 
careful  search  in  every  carriage. 

Herr  Haeberlein  Avas  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  engine. 
Between  him  and  the  door  sat  a  lady  with  a  copy  of  the 
Graphic  on  her  knee.  If  she  covild  only  have  been  persuaded 
to  read  it,  it  might  haA^e  made  an  effectual  screen.  She  tried 
to  will  her  to  take  it  up,  but  Avithout  success.  And  still  the 
detectives  moved  steadily  forward  Avitli  their  keen  scrutiny. 

Erica  was  in  despair.  Herr  Haeberlein  imagined  himself 
safe  now,  and  she  could  not  Avarn  him  without  attracting  the 
notice  and  rousing  the  suspicion  of  the  passengers.  To  com- 
plete her  misery,  she  saAV  that  he  had  pushed  his  wig  a  little  on 
one  side,  and  through  the  black  hair  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
silvery  grey. 

Her  heart  beat  so  fast  that  it  almost  choked  her,  but  still 
she  forced  herself  to  talk  and  laugh,  though  every  moment  the 
danger  drcAV  nearer.  At  the  very  last  moment,  an  inspiration 
came  to  her.  The  detectives  Avere  examining  the  next  car* 
riage. 


198  ERICA  TO  TnE  RESCUE. 

'  They  are  taking  tilings  in  the  most  leisurely  way  to- 
night ; '  she  exclaimed.  *  I'm  tired  of  waiting.  I  shall  say 
good-bve  to  joii,  and  go  home,  I  think.' 

As  she  spoke,  she  opened  the  carriage-door,  stepped  in,  and 
demonstratively  kissed  her  silent  companion,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  the  passengers,  Avho  had  been  a  good  deal 
diverted  by  her  racy  conversation  and  the  grumpy  replies  of 
the  traveller.  There  was  a  smile  on  every  face  when  one  of 
the  detectives  looked  in.  He  glanced  to  the  other  side  of  the 
carriage,  and  saw  a  dark-haired  young  man  in  an  ulster,  and  a 
pretty  girl  taking  leave  of  her  lover.  Erica's  face  entirely  hid 
Herr  Haeberlein's  from  view  and  the  man  passed  on  with  a 
shrug  and  a  smile.  She  had  contrived  to  re-adjust  his  wig, 
and,  ^^itll  many  last  words,  managed  to  spin  out  the  remaining 
time,  till  at  last  the  welcome  signal  of  departure  was  given. 

Haeberlein's  mouth  relaxed  into  a  benignant  smile,  as  he 
nodded  a  farewell ;  then  he  discreetly  composed  himself  into  a 
sleeping  posture,  while  Erica  stood  on  the  platform  and  waved 
her  handkerchief. 

As  she  moved  away  the  two  detectives  passed  by  her. 

'  Not  there  !  at  any  rate,'  she  heard  one  of  them  say. 
'  Maybe  they  got  him  by  the  nine  o'clock  at  Waterloo.' 

'  More  likely  trapped  him  in  Guilford  Terrace/  replied  the 
other. 

Erica,  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter,  saw  the  men  leave 
the  station ;  and  then,  springing  into  a  cab,  drove  to  a  street  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Guilford  Square. 

Now  that  her  work  was  over,  she  began  to  feel  what  a 
terrible  strain  it  had  been.  At  first  she  lay  back  in  the  corner 
of  the  cab  in  a  state  of  dreamy  peace,  watching  the  gaslit 
streets,  the  hurrying  passengers,  with  a  comfortable  sense  of 
secui'ity  and  rest.  But  when  she  was  set  down  near  Guilford 
Square,  her  courage,  which  in  real  danger  had  never  failed  her, 
suddenly  ebbed  away,  and  left  her  merely  a  young  girl,  with 
aching  back  and  weary  limbs,  with  a  shrinking  dislike  of 
walking  alone  so  late  in  the  evening.  "Worst  of  all,  her  old 
childish  panic  had  taken  hold  of  her  once  more  ;  her  knees 
trembled  beneath  her,  as  she  remembered  that  she  must  pass 
the  spy,  who  would  assuredly  still  be  keeping  watch  in  Guil- 
ford Terrace.  The  dread  of  being  secretly  watched  had  always 
been  a  torment  to  her.  Spies,  sometimes  real,  sometimes 
imaginary,  had  been  the  teri'or  of  her  childhood — had  taken  the 
place  of  the  ghost  and  bogey  panics  which  assail  children 
brought  up  in  other  creeds. 


ERICA  TO  THE  RESCUE.  199 

Tlie  fact  Avas  she  had  been  living  at  very  high  pressure,  and 
she  was  too  much  exhausted  to  conquer  her  xxureasonable 
fright,  which  increased  every  moment,  until  she  was  ou  the 
point  of  going  to  the  Osmonds,  willing  to  frame  any  excuse  for 
so  late  a  visit  if  only  she  could  get  one  of  them  to  walk  home 
with  her.  Honesty  and  shame  hindered  her,  however.  With 
a  great  effort  of  will  she  forced  herself  to  pass  the  door, 
horrified  to  find  how  nearly  selfish  cowardice  had  induced  her 
to  draw  her  friends  into  suspicion.  Echoes  of  the  hymns  sung 
at  her  baptism  and  at  the  subsequent  confirmation  rang  in  her 
ears.     She  walked  on  more  bravely. 

By  the  time  she  reached  Guilford  Terrace,  she  had  herself 
quite  in  hand.  And  it  was  well ;  for,  as  she  walked  down  the 
dreary  little  alley,  a  dark  form  emerged  from  the  shadow,  and 
suddenly  confronted  her. 

Any  one  might  reasonably  be  a  little  startled  by  having  a 
sudden  pause  made  before  them  by  an  unknown  person  on  a 
dark  night.  Erica  thought  she  could  exactly  sympathise  with 
a  shying  horse ;  she  felt  very  much  inclined  to  swerve  aside. 
Fortunately  she  betrayed  no  fear,  only  a  little  surprise,  as  she 
lifted  her  head  and  looked  the  man  full  in  the  flxce,  then 
moved  on  with  quiet  dignity.  She  felt  him  follow  her  to  the 
very  door,  and  purposely  she  took  out  her  latch-key  with  great 
deliberation,  and  allowed  him,  if  he  pleased,  to  take  a  quiet 
survey  of  the  passage  while  she  rubbed  her  boots  on  the  mat ; 
then,  with  a  delicious  sense  of  safety,  she  closed  the  door  on  the 
unfriendly  gaze. 

In  the  meantime,  Raebuni  had  spent  a  miserably  anxious 
evening,  regretting  his  rash  permission  for  Erica  to  go,  re- 
gretting his  own  enforced  inaction,  regretting  his  well-known 
and  undisguisable  face  and  form,  almost  regretting  that  his 
friend  had  visited  him.  Like  Erica,  he  was  only  personally 
brave  ;  he  coull  not  be  brave  for  other  people.  Actual  risk  he 
would  have  enjoyed,  but  this  anxious  waiting  was  to  him  the 
keenest  torture. 

When  at  length  the  age-long  hour  had  passed,  and  he  heard 
the  front  door  close,  he  started  up  with  an  exclamation  of  relief, 
and  hurried  out  into  the  passage.  Erica  greeted  him  with  her 
brightest  smile. 

'  All  safe,'  she  said,  following  him  into  the  study.  *  He 
is  well  on  his  way  to  Folkestone,  and  we  have  eluded  three 
spies.' 

Then,  with  a  good  deal  of  humour,  she  related  the  whole  of 
the  adventure,  at  the  same  time  taking  off  her  hat  and  gloves. 


200  THE  NEW  RELATIONS. 

'  And  you  met  no  one  yon  knew  V  asked  Raeburn. 

•  Only  the  bishop  who  baptised  and  confirmed  me  this 
evening,  and  he  of  course  did  not  recognise  me.' 

As  she  spoke,  she  unbuttoned  her  ulstei-,  disclosing  beneath 
it  her  white  serge  dress. 

Raeburn  sighed,  AVords  and  sight  both  reawakened  a  grief 
which  he  would  tain  have  put  from  him. 

But  Erica  came  and  sat  down  on  the  hcarthi-ug,  and  nestled 
up  to  him  just  as  usual. 

'  I  am  so  tired,  ^^a  J?'e  mio  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  But  it  has 
been  well  woi'th  it.' 

Baeburn  did  not  answer.     She  looked  up  in  his  face. 

*  What  are  you  thinking  % ' 

'  I  was  thinking  that  few  people  had  such  an  ending  to  their 
confirmation  day,'  said  Baebuun, 

'  I  thank  God  for  it,'  said  Erica.  *  Oh  !  father,  there  is  so 
much,  so  very  much,  we  still  have  in  common  !  And  I  am  so 
glad  this  happened  to  night  of  all  nights  ! ' 

He  stroked  her  hair  caressinglj^,  but  did  not  spealc. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   NEW   RELATIONS. 

For  all  men  live  and  judge  amiss 

Whose  talents  jump  not  just  with  his.  Hudihras. 

Comfortable  moles,  whom  what  they  do 
Teaches  the  limit  of  the  just  and  true, 
(And  for  such  doing  they  require  not  eyes). 

]\lATTnEW  Arnold. 

One  bright  afternoon  about  a  week  after  this,  Erica  found 
herself  actually  in  the  train,  and  on  her  way  to  Greyshot.  At 
first  she  had  disliked  the  idea,  but  her  father  had  evidently 
wished  her  to  accept  the  invitation,  and  a  hope  of  uniting  again 
the  two  families  woiild  have  stimulated  her  to  a  much  more 
formidable  undertaking  than  a  visit  of  a  few  weeks  to  perfect 
strangers.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  proposal  made  to  her 
father ;  her  own  letter  had  been  most  kind,  and  after  all, 
though  she  did  not  like  the  actual  leaving  home,  she  could  not 
but  look  forward  to  a  rest  and  change  after  the  long  summer 
months  in  town.  Moreover,  Aunt  Jean  had  just  returned, 
after  a  brief  holiday,  and  the  home  atmosphere  for  the  last  two 


THE  NEW  RELATIONS.  201 

or  three  days  had  been  veiy  trying  ;  she  felt  as  if  a  change 
would  make  her  better  able  to  bear  the  small  daily  frets  and 
annoyances,  and  not  unnaturally  looked  forward  to  the  de- 
licious rest  of  imity,  A  Christian  home  ought  to  be  de- 
lightful ;  she  had  never  stayed  in  one,  and  had  a  high  ideal 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  by  the  time  she  reached  her 
journey's  end,  and,  waiting  for  her  on  the  platform,  she  had  no 
difficidty  in  recognising  her  aunt,  a  taller  and  fairer  edition  of 
Mrs.  Craigie,  who  received  her  with  a  kind,  nervovis  diffident 
greeting,  and  seemed  very  anxious  indeed  about  her  luggage, 
which  was  speedily  brought  to  light  by  the  footman,  and  safely 
conveyed  to  the  carriage.  Erica,  used  to  complete  inde- 
pendence, felt  as  if  she  were  being  transformed  into  a  sort  of 
grown-up  baby,  as  she  was  relieved  of  her  bag  and  umbrella, 
and  guided  down  the  steps,  and  assisted  into  the  open  landau, 
and  carefully  tucked  in  with  a  carriage-rug. 

'  I  hope  you  are  not  over-tired  with  the  journey  'i '  inquired 
her  aunt,  with  an  air  of  the  kindest  and  most  anxious 
solicitude. 

Accustomed  to  a  really  hard  life  in  London  Erica  almost 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  being  over-tired  by  such  a  short 
journey. 

'Oh,  I  have  enjoyed  it,  thank  you,'  she  replied.  'What  a 
lovely  line  it  is  ! ' 

'Is  it?'  said  her  aunt,  a  little  suprised.  'I  did'nt  know  it 
was  considered  specially  pretty,  and  I  myself  am  never  able 
to  look  much  at  the  scenery  in  travelling;  it  always  gives  me 
a  headache.' 

'  What  a  pity  ! '  said  Erica.  '  It  is  such  a  treat,  I  think. 
In  fact,  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  have  seen  what  people 
call  scenery.     I  never  stayed  in  the  country  in  my  life.' 

'  My  dear,  is  it  possible  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  in  a 
horrified  voice.  '  Yet  you  do  not  look  pale.  Do  you  mean  that 
you  have  spent  your  whole  life  in  town  % ' 

'  I  was  at  Paris  for  two  years,'  said  Erica  ;  '  and  twice  I 
have  spent  a  little  time  at  the  seaside ;  and,  years  and  years 
ago,  father  was  once  taken  ill  at  Southampton,  and  we  went  to 
him  there— that  was  almost  like  the  country — I  mean,  one 
could  get  country  walks.  It  was  delightful ;  there  is  a  splendid 
avenue,  you  know,  and  oh,  such  a  common  !  It  was  in  the 
spring-time.  I  shall  never  forget  the  yellow  gorse  and  the 
hawthorns,  and  such  beautiful  velvety  grass.' 

Her  enthusiasm  pleased  her  aunt ;  moreover,  it  was  a  great 
relief  to  find  the  unknown  niece  well-bred  and  companionable, 


202  THE  NEW  RELATIONS. 

and  not  overburdened  with  shyness.  Ah-eady  Mrs.  Fane-Smith 
loved  her,  and  felt  that  tlie  invitation,  which  she  had  given 
really  from  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  was  likely  to  give  her 
pleasure  instead  of  discomfort.  All  the  way  home,  while  Erica 
admired  the  Greyshot  streets,  and  asked  questions  about  the 
various  buildings,  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  was  rejoicing  that  so  fair  a 
*  brand,'  as  she  mentally  expressed  it,  had  been  '  plucked  from 
the  burning,'  and  resolving  that  she  would  adopt  her  as  a 
second  daughter,  and,  if  possible,  induce  her  to  take  their 
name,  and  drop  the  notorious  '  Raeburn.'  The  relief  was  great, 
for  on  the  way  to  the  station  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  had  been 
revolving  the  unpleasant  thought  in  her  mind  that  '  Really 
thei'e  was  no  knowing,  Erica  might  be  "  anything"  since  her 
mother  was  a  "  nobody.'" 

At  last  they  drew  up  before  a  large  house  in  the  most 
fashionable  of  the  Greyshot  squares,  the  windows  and  balconies 
of  which  were  gay  with  flowers. 

'  We  shall  find  Rose  at  home,  I  expect,'  said  Mrs.  Fane- 
Smith,  leading  Erica  across  a  marble-paved  hall ;  and  even  as 
she  spoke  a  merry  voice  came  from  the  staircase,  and  down 
ran  a  fair-haired  girl,  with  a  charmingly  eager  and  naive 
manner. 

Erica  had  guessed  what  she  must  be  from  the  tpiaint  and 
kindly-meant  letter  which  she  had  sent  her  years  before,  and 
though  five  years  in  society  had  somewhat  artificialised  Rose, 
she  still  retained  much  of  her  childishness  and  impetuous 
honesty.  She  slipped  her  arm  into  her  cousin's,  and  took  her 
off  to  her  room  at  once. 

'  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  ! '  she  exclaimed.  *  I  have 
been  longing  to  see  you  for  years  and  years.  Mamma  has  been 
talking  so  much  about  your  cleverness  and  my  stupidity  that 
just  at  the  last  I  felt  quite  in  a  fright  lest  you  should  be  too 
dreadfully  "  blue."  I  looked  out  of  the  drawing-room  window 
for  you,  and  if  you  had  been  very  forbidding,  I  should  have 
received  you  in  state  in  the  drawing-room,  but  you  were  so 
charmingly  pretty  that  I  was  obliged  to  rush  down  headlong  to 
meet  you.' 

Erica  laughed  and  blushed,  not  being  used  to  such  broad 
compliments.  In  the  meantime,  they  had  traversed  several 
flights  of  stairs,  and  Rose,  opening  a  door,  showed  her  into  a 
spacious  bedroom,  most  luxuriously  fitted  up. 

*  This  great  big  room  for  me  ! '  exclaimed  Erica. 

'It  isn't  at  all  ghostly,'  said  Rose,  reassuringly.  'Will  you 
be  afraid  if  you  have  a  night-light?' 


THE  NEW  RELATIONS.  203 

Erica  laughed  at  the  idea  of  being  afraid ;  she  was  merely 
amused  to  think  of  herself  established  in  such  a  palatial  bed- 
room, such  a  contrast  to  her  little  book-lined  room  at  home. 
There  was  a  dainty  little  book-case  here,  however,  with  some 
beautifully  bound  books,  and  in  another  minute  she  was  de- 
lightedly scanning  their  titles,  and,  with  a  joj^ous  exclamation, 
had  caught  up  Browning's  Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  when 
a  sound  of  dismay  from  her  cousin  made  her  laughingly  put  it 
down  again. 

'  Oh,  dear  me  ! '  said  Rose,  in  a  despairing  voice,  '  I  am  afraid, 
after  all,  you  are  dreadfully  blue.  Fancy  snatching  up  a 
Browning  like  that ! ' 

Erica  began  to  unlock  her  trunk. 

'  Do  you  want  your  things  out  ? '  said  Eose.  '  I'll  ring  for 
Gemma  ;  she'll  unpack  for  you.' 

'  Oh,  thank  you,'  said  Erica,  *  I  would  much  rather  do  it 
myself.' 

'  But  it  is  nearly  dinner-time,  we  are  dining  early  this 
evening,  and  you  will  want  Gemma  to  help  you  to  dress.' 

'  Oh,  no,'  said  Erica,  laughing,  '  I  never  had  a  maid  in  my 
life.' 

*  How  fanny,'  said  Rose,  '  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with- 
out one.  Gemma  does  everything  for  me,  at  least  everytliing 
that  Elspeth  will  let  her.' 

*  Is  she  Italian  ? '  as  Erica. 

'  Oh,  no,  her  name  is  really  Jemima,  but  that  was  quite  too 
dreadfully  ugly,  you  know,  and  she  is  such  a  pretty  girl.' 

She  chattered  on  while  Erica  unpacked  and  jDut  on  her 
white  serge,  then  they  went  down  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
Erica  Avas  introduced  to  her  host,  a  small  elderly  man,  who 
looked  as  if  Indian  sun  had  partially  frizzled  him.  He  received 
her  kindly,  but  with  a  sort  of  ceremonious  stiffness  which  made 
her  feel  less  perfectly  at  her  ease  than  before,  and  after  the 
usual  remarks  about  the  length  of  the  journey,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  weather  he  relapsed  into  silence,  surveying  every  one 
from  his  arm-chair  as  though  he  were  passing  mental  judgments 
on  every  foolish  or  trifling  remark  uttered.  In  reality,  he  was 
taking  in  every  particular  about  Erica.  He  looked  at  her  broad 
forehead,  overshadowed  by  the  thick  smooth  waves  of  short 
auburn  hair;  observed  her  golden-brown  eyes  which  were  just 
now  as  clear  as  amber  ;  noted  the  creamy  whitness  and  delicate 
colouring  of  her  complexion,  which  indeed  defied  criticism — 
even  the  criticism  of  such  a  critical  man  as  Mr.  Fane-Smith. 
The  nose  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too  long,  the  chin  too  prominent, 


204  THE  NEW  RELATIONS. 

for  ideal  beauty,  but  gi'eatcr  regularity  of  feature  could  but 
have  rendered  less  quaint,  less  powerful,  and  less  attractive  the 
strangely  winsome  face.  It  was  only  the  mouth  which  he  did 
not  feel  satisfied  with, — it  added  character  to  the  face,  but  he 
somehow  felt  that  it  betokened  a  nature  not  easily  led,  not  so 
gentle  and  pliable  as  he  could  have  wished.  It  shut  so  very 
firmly,  and  the  under-lip  was  a  little  thinner  and  straighter 
then  the  other  and  receded  a  little  from  it,  giving  the  impres- 
sion that  Erica  had  borne  much  suffering,  and  had  exercised 
great  self-restraint. 

Airs.  Fane-Smith  saw  in  her  a  sort  of  minature  and 
feminine  edition  of  the  Luke  Eaeburn  whom  she  remembered 
eight-and-twenty  years  before  in  their  Scottish  home.  When 
Hose  had  gone  into  the  back  drawing-room  to  fetch  her  crewels, 
she  drew  Erica  towards  her,  and,  kissing  her  again,  said  in  a 
low,  almost  frightened  voice, 

'  You  are  very  like  what  your  father  was.' 

But  just  at  that  moment  Mr.  Fane-Smith  asked  some  sudden 
question,  and  his  wife,  starting  and  colouring,  as  though  she  had 
been  detected  in  wrong-doing,  hurriedly  and  nervously  devoted 
herself  to  what  seemed  to  Erica  a  disti'actingly  roundabout 
answer.  By  the  time  it  Avas  fairly  ended,  dinner  was  announced, 
and  the  strangeness  of  the  atmosjihei-e  of  this  new  home  struck 
more  and  more  upon  Erica  and  chilled  her  a  little.  The 
massive  grandeur  of  the  old  oak  furniture,  the  huge  oil 
paintings,  which  she  wanted  really  to  study,  the  gi'cat  silver 
candelabra,  even  the  two  footmen  and  the  solemn  old  butler 
seemed  to  oppress  her.  The  luxury  was  almost  burdensome. 
It  was  a  treat  indeed  to  see  and  use  beautiful  glass  and  china, 
and  pleasant  to  have  beautiful  fruit  and  flowers  to  look  at,  but 
Erica  was  a  Bohemian  and  hated  stiff  ceremony.  Her  heart 
failed  her  when  she  thought  of  sitting  down  night  after  night 
to  such  an  interminable  meal. 

Worse  still,  she  had  taken  a  dislike  to  her  host.  Her  likes 
and  dislikes  were  always  characterised  by  Highland  intensity, 
and  something  in  her  aunt's  husband  seemed  to  rub  her  the 
wrong  way.  I\Ir.  Fane-Smith  was  a  retired  Indian  judge,  a  man 
much  respected  in  the  religious  world,  and  in  his  way  a  really 
good  rr<an;  but  undoubtedly  his  sympathies  were  narrow  and 
his  creed  hard.  Closely  entwined  with  much  true  and  active 
Christianity  he  had  allowed  to  spring  up  a  choking  overgrowth 
of  hard  criticism,  of  intolerance,  of  domineering  dogmatism. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  go  about  the  world,  trying,  not 
to  find  points  of  union  with  all  men,  but  ferreting  out  the  most 


THE  NEW  RELATIONS.  205 

trifling  points  of  divergence.  He  did  this  with  the  best  in- 
tentions, no  doubt,  but  as  Erica's  whole  view  of  life,  and  of 
Christian  life  in  particular,  was  the  direct  opposite  of  his,  their 
natures  inevitably  jarred. 

She  knew  that  it  was  foolish  to  expect  every  Christian 
household  to  be  equal  to  the  Osmond's,  but  nevertheless  a  bitter 
sense  of  disappointment  stole  over  her  that  evening.  Where 
was  the  sense  of  restful  unity  which  she  had  looked  forward  tol 
The  new  atmosphere  felt  strange,  the  new  order  of  life — this 
luxurious  easy  life — "was  hard  to  comprehend. 

To  add  to  her  dislike,  Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  something  of  an 
epicure  and  had  a  most  fastidious  palate.  Now,  Erica's  fiither 
thought  scai'cely  anything  about  what  he  ate — it  was  indeed 
upon  record  that  he  had  once  in  a  fit  of  absence  dined  upon  a 
plate  of  scraps  intended  for  Friskarina,  while  engaged  in  some 
scientific  discussion  with  the  professor  !  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  on 
the  other  hand,  though  convinced  that  the  motto  of  all  atheists 
was,  '  Let  us  eat  and  drink  for  to-morrow  we  die,'  criticised  his 
food  almost  as  severely  as  he  criticised  human  beings.  The 
mulligatawny  was  not  to  his  taste.  The  curry  was  too 
hot.  He  was  sure  the  jelly  was  made  with  that  detest- 
able stuff  gelatine ;  he  Avished  his  wife  would  forbid  the 
cook  to  use  it — if  she  had  seen  old  horses  being  led  into 
a  gelatine  manufactory  as  he  had  seen,  she  would  be  more 
particular  ! 

Interspersed  between  these  complaints  was  conversation 
which  irritated  Erica  even  more.  It  was  chiefly  about  the 
sayings  and  doings  of  people  whom  she  did  not  know,  and 
the  doings  of  some  clergyman  in  a  neighbouring  town  seemed 
to  receive  severe  censure,  for  Mr.  Fane-Smith  stigmatised  him 
as  *A  most  dangerous  man,  a  Pelagian  in  disguise.'  However, 
he  seemed  to  be  fond  of  labelling  people  with  the  names  of  old 
heresies ;  for,  presently,  when  Rose  said  something  about  Mr. 
Farrant,  her  father  replied,  contemptuously, 

'  Every  one  knows,  my  dear,  that  Mr.  Farrant  holds  un- 
orthodox views  !  Why,  a  few  years  ago  he  was  an  atheist,  and 
now  he's  a  mere  Photinian  !' 

As  no  one  but  Mr.  Fane-Smith  had  the  fiiintest  idea  what  a 
'Photinian'  meant,  the  accusation  could  neither  be  understood 
nor  refuted.  ]\[rs.  Fane-Smith  looked  very  uncomfortable, 
fearing  that  her  niece  might  feci  hurt  at  the  tone  in  which 
'  He  was  an  atheist,'  had  been  spoken ;  and  indeed  Erica's 
colour  did  rise. 

'Is  that  Mr.  Farrant  the  member?'   she  asked. 


206  THE  NEW  RELATI0X3. 

'  Yes,'  replied  her  aunt,  apprelicnsivel3%  '  Do  you  know 
himr 

'Not  personally,  but  I  shall  always  honour  him  for  the 
splendid  speech  he  made  last  year  on  religious  toleration,'  said 
Erica. 

j\Ir.  Fane-Smith  raised  his  eyebrows,  for  the  same  speech 
had  made  him  most  indignant.  However,  he  began  to  realise 
that,  before  Erica  could  become  a  patient  recipient  of  his 
opinions,  like  his  wife  and  daughter,  he  must  root  out  the  false 
ideas  which  evidently  still  clang  to  her. 

'Mr.  Farrant  is  no  doubt  a  reformed  character  now,'  he 
admitted.  '  But  he  is  far  fi'om  orthodox  !  far  from  orthodox  ! 
At  one  time  I  am  told  that  he  was  one  of  the  wildest  young 
fellows  in  the  neighbourhood,  no  decent  person  Avould  speak  to 
him,  and  though  no  doubt  he  means  well,  yet  I  could  never 
have  confidence  in  such  a  man.' 

'  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  him  from  my  friends  the 
Osmonds,'  said  Erica,  stimulated  as  usual  to  side  with  the 
abused.  '  Mr.  Osmond  thinks  him  the  finest  character  he  ever 
knew.' 

'Is  that  the  clergyman  you  told  me  of?'  interposed  Mrs, 
Fane-Smith,  anxious  to  turn  the  conversation. 

But  her  husband  threw  in  a  question  too. 

'  What,  Charles  Osmond,  do  you  mean — the  author  o?  Ussat/s 
on  Modern  Christianity  ?^ 

'  Yes,'  replied  Erica. 

'  I  don't  know  that  he  is  much  more  orthodox  than  Mr. 
Farrant,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith  ;  '  I  consider  that  he  has  Noetian 
tendencies.' 

Erica's  colour  rose  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

'  I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  what  is  called  orthodox  or 
not,'  she  said.  But  I  do  know  that  he  is  the  most  Christ-like 
man  I  ever  met.' 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  looked  uncomfortable.  He  would  name 
any  num'ner  of  heresies  and  heretics,  but,  except  at  grace,  it 
was  against  his  sense  of  etiquette  to  speak  the  name  of  Christ 
at  table.  Even  Hose  looked  surprised,  and  Mrs.  Fane-Smith 
coloured,  and  at  once  made  the  move  to  go. 

On  the  plea  of  fetching  some  work,  Erica  escaped  to  her 
own  room,  and  there  tried  to  cool  her  checks  and  her  temper ; 
but  the  idea  of  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Fane-Smith  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  such  men  as  Mr.  Farrant  and  Charles  Osmond  had 
thoroughly  roused  her,  and  she  went  down  still  in  a  dangeroua 
state — a  touch  would  make  her  anger  blaze  up. 


THE  KEW  RELATIONS.  207 

*  Are  you  fond  of  knitting  V  asked  her  aunt,  making  room 
for  her  on  the  sofa,  and  much  relieved  to  find  that  her  niece 
was  not  of  the  unfeminine  '  blue  '  order. 

'I  don't  really  like  any  work,'  said  Erica,  '  but,  of  course,  a 
certain  amount  must  be  done,  and  I  like  to  knit  my  father's  socks.' 

Mr.  Fane-Smith,  who  had  just  joined  them,  took  note  of  this 
answer,  and  it  seemed  to  surprise  and  displease  him,  though  he 
made  no  remark. 

'  Did  he  think  that  atheists  didn't  wear  socks  1  or  that  their 
daughters  couldn't  knit  ]'  thought  Erica  to  herself,  with  a  little 
resentful  inward  laugh. 

The  fact  was  that  Mr.  Fane-Smith  saw  more  and  more 
plainly  that  the  niece  Avhom  his  wife  was  so  anxious  to  adopt 
was  by  no  means  his  ideal  of  a  convert.  Of  course  he  was 
really  and  honestly  thankful  that  she  had  adopted  Christianity, 
but  it  chafed  him  sorely  that  she  had  not  exactly  adopted  his 
own  views.  He  was  a  man  absolutely  convinced  that  there  is 
but  one  form  of  truth  (and  an  exceedingly  narrow  form  he 
made  it)  for  all  mankind.  He — Mr.  Fane-Smith— had  exactly 
grasped  the  whole  truth,  and  whoever  swerved  to  the  right  or 
to  the  left,  if  only  by  a  hair's-breadth,  was,  he  considered,  in  a 
dangerous  and  lamentable  condition.  Ah  !  he  thought  to  him- 
self, if  only  he  had  had  from  the  beginning  the  opportunity  of 
influencing  Erica,  instead  of  that  dangerovisly  broad  Charles 
Osmond  !  It  did  not  strike  him  that  he  had  had  the  oppor- 
tunity ever  since  his  return  to  England,  but  had  entirely 
declined  to  admit  an  atheist  to  his  house.  Other  men  had 
laboured,  and  he  had  entered  into  the  fruit  of  their  labours, 
and  not  finding  it  quite  to  his  taste,  fancied  that  he  could  have 
managed  much  better. 

There  are  few  sadder  things  in  the  world  than  to  see  really 
good  and  well-intentioned  men  fighting  for  what  they  consider 
the  religious  cause  with  the  devil's  weapons.  Mr.  Fane-Smith 
would  have  been  dismayed  if  any  one  could  have  shown  him 
that  all  his  life  he  had  been  struggling  to  suppress  un- 
belief by  what  was  infinitely  worse  than  sincere  unbelief 
• — denunciation  often  untrue,  always  unjust,  invariably  un- 
charitable. He  would  have  been  almost  broken-hearted  could 
he  ever  have  known  that  his  hard  intolerance,  his  narrowness,  his 
domineering  injustice  had  not  deterred  one  soul  from  adopting 
the  views  he  abhorred,  but  had,  on  the  contrary,  done  a  great 
deal  to  drive  into  atheism  those  who  were  wavering.  And  this 
evening,  even  while  lamenting  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
train  up  his  niece  exactly  in  the  opinions  he  himself  held,  ha 


208  THE  NI.W  RELATIONS. 

was  all  the  time  trying  her  faith  more  severely  than  a  whole 
regiments  of  atheists  could  have  tried  it. 

The  time  passed  heavily  enough.  When  two  people  in 
the  room  are  unhappy  and  uncomfortable,  a  sense  of  unrest 
generally  falls  upon  the  other  occupants.  Hose  yawned,  talked 
fitfully  about  the  gaieties  of  the  coming  week,  worked  half  a 
leaf  on  an  antimacassai',  and  sang  three  or  four  silly  little 
coquettish  songs  which  somehow  jarred  on  every  one. 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  feeling  anxious  and  harassed,  afraid  alike 
of  vexing  her  husband  and  offending  her  niece,  talked  kindly 
and  laboriously.  Erica  turned  the  heel  of  her  sock  and 
responded  as  well  as  she  could,  her  sensitiveness  recoiling 
almost  as  much  from  the  laboured  and  therefore  oppressive 
kindness,  as  from  the  irritating  and  narrow  censure  which  INIr. 
Fane-Smith  dealt  out  to  the  world. 

Family  prayers  followed.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
been  present  at  such  a  household  gathering,  and  the  idea 
seemed  to  her  a  very  beautiful  one.  But  the  function  proved 
so  formal  and  lifeless  that  it  chilled  her  more  than  anything. 
Yet  her  relations  were  so  very  kind  to  her  personally  that  she 
blamed  herself  for  feeling  disappointed,  and  struggled  hard  to 
pierce  through  the  oviter  shell,  which  she  knew  only  concealed 
their  real  goodness.  She  knew,  too,  that  she  had  herself  to 
blame  in  part ;  her  over-sensitiveness,  her  quick  temper,  her 
want  of  deep  insight  had  all  had  their  share  in  making  that 
evening  such  a  blank  failure. 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  went  with  her  into  her  bedroom  to  see 
that  she  had  all  she  wanted.  Though  the  September  evening 
was  mild,  a  fire  blazed  in  the  grate,  much  to  Erica's  astonish- 
ment. Not  on  the  most  freezing  of  winter  nights  had  she  ever 
enjoyed  such  a  luxury.  Her  aunt  explained  that  the  room 
looked  north,  and,  besides,  she  thought  a  fire  was  cheerful  and 
homelike. 

'  You  are  very  kind,'  said  Erica,  warmly  ;  '  but  you  know  I 
mustn't  let  you  spoil  me,  or  I  shall  not  be  fit  to  go  back  to  the 
home  life,  and  I  want  to  go  home  much  more  fit  for  it.' 

Something  in  the  spontaneous  warmth  and  confidence  of 
this  speech  cheered  Mrs.  Fane-Smith.  She  wished  above  all 
things  to  win  her  niece's  love  and  confidence,  and  she  wisely 
reserved  her  proposal  as  to  the  matter  of  a  home  for  another 
time.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that  she  should  give  Erica 
a  hint  as  to  the  topics  likely  to  irritate  I\Ir.  Fane-Smitli. 

'I  think,  dear,'  she  began,  '  it  would  be  as  well  if,  when 
my   husband   and   Rose   are    present,   you    are    careful    not 


THE  NEW  RELATIONS.  209 

to  speak  of  jour  father.  You  won't  miud  my  saying  this  ; 
but  I  know  it  displeases  my  husband,  and  I  tliink  you  will 
xmderstand  that  there  are  objections — society,  you  know,  and 
public  opinion ;   we  must  consult  it  a  little.' 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  grew  nervous  and  incoherent,  threw  her 
arms  round  her  niece's  neck,  kissed  her  most  affectionately,  and 
wished  her  good-night. 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  Erica's  repressed  indignation 
blazed  up.  We  fear  it  must  be  recorded  that  she  fairly  stamped 
with  anger. 

Wounded  in  her  tenderesfc  part,  indignant  at  the  insult  to 
her  father,  ashamed  of  her  own  want  of  control,  miserably  per- 
plexed by  her  new  surroundings,  it  was  long  before  she  could 
compose  herself.  She  paced  up  and  down  the  richly-furnished 
room,  struggling  hard  to  conquer  her  anger.  At  length,  by  a 
happy  impi^lse,  she  caught  up  her  Prayer-book,  checked  her 
longing  to  walk  rapidly  to  and  fro,  sat  down  on  the  Indian  rug 
before  the  fire,  and  read  the  evening  psalm.  It  happened  to 
be  the  thirty-seventh.  Nothing  could  have  calmed  her  so 
effectually  as  its  tender  exhortation,  its  wonderful  sympathy  with 
human  natm-e.  *  Fret  not  thyself,  else  shalt  thou  be  moved 
to  do  evil.  Put  thou  thy  trust  in  the  Lord,  and  be  doing 
good.     Put  thy  trust  in  Him,  and  he  will  bring  it  to  pass.* 

She  closed  the  book,  and  sat  musing,  her  anger  quite  passed 
awa3^ 

All  at  once  she  recollected  old  Elspeth,  the  nurse.  Her 
fiither  had  charged  her  with  many  messages  to  the  faithful 
old  servant,  and  so  had  her  aunt.  She  felt  ashamed  to  think 
that  she  had  been  several  hours  in  the  house  without  delivering 
them.  Rose's  room  was  close  to  hers.  She  went  out,  and 
knocked  softly  at  the  door. 

'  I  just  came  to  see  whether  Elspeth  was  here,'  she  said, 
rather  dismayed  to  find  the  candles  out,  and  the  room  only 
lighted  up  by  the  red  glow  from  the  fire. 

Hose,  who  had  had  no  temper  to  conquer,  was  already  in 
bed. 

'  Still  in  your  dress  ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  I  believe  you've 
been  at  that  Browning  again.  But  did  no  one  come  to  help 
you  ?     I  sent  Gemma.' 

'  I  didn't  want  help,  thank  you,'  said  Erica.  '  I  only 
wanted  to  see  Elspeth,  because  I  have  a  message  for  her.' 

'  How  conscientious  you  are  ! '  said  Rose,  laughing.  '  I 
always  make  a  point  of  forgetting  messages  when  I  go  from 
home  !  Well,  you  will  find  Elspeth  in  the  little  room  on  the 
10 


210  THE  NEW  RELATIONS. 

next  half-landing,  the  \\-ork-room.  She  was  here  not  two 
minutes  ago.  Good-uight !  Breakfast  is  at  nine,  you  know  : 
and  they'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea  when  they  call  you.' 

A  little  shyly.  Erica  made  her  way  to  the  work-room,  where 
Elspeth  was  tacking  frilling  into  one  of  Rose's  dresses.  The 
old  woman  started  up  with  a  quick  exclamation,  when  she 
appeared  in  the  door-way. 

'  !May  I  come  in  ] '  said  Erica,  with  all  the  charm  of  manner 
which  she  had  inherited  from  her  father.  '  'Tis  very  late,  but 
I  didn't  like  to  go  to  bed  without  seeing  you.' 

*  I  hope  missie  has  everything  she  wants  1 '  asked  Elspeth, 
anxiously. 

'  Yes,  indeed  ! '  said  Erica.  '  All  I  want  is  to  see  you,  and 
to  give  you  my  father's  love ;  to  ask  how  you  are.  He  and 
Aunt  Jean  have  often  told  me  about  you.  You  have  not  for- 
gotten them"?' 

'  Forgotten  !  No,  indeed  ! '  cried  old  Elspeth.  'When  I  saw 
you  at  "  Takin'  the  book,"  and  saw  you  so  like  your  poor  father, 
I  could  have  cried.  You  are  Mr.  Luke's  bairn,  and  no  mistake, 
my  bonnie  lassie  !  Ah,  I  mind  the  day  well  when  he  came  to 
my  I'oom — the  auld  nurseiy  in  the  parsonage,  where  I  had  reared 
him — and  told  me  that  master  had  ordered  him  out  of  the 
house.  I  pray  God  I  may  never  again  see  a  face  look  as  his 
looked  then ! ' 

Tears  started  to  her  eyes  at  the  recollection.  Erica  threw 
her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  kissed  her. 

'  You  love  him  still.  I  see  you  love  him  ! '  she  exclaimed, 
all  her  feeling  of  isolation  melting  in  the  assurance  of  the  old 
servant's  sympathy. 

So,  after  all,  Erica  had  a  maid  in  attendance ;  for  Elspeth 
insisted  on  seeing  her  to  bed,  and,  since  they  talked  all  the  time 
about  the  old  Scotch  days,  she  was  well  content  to  renounce 
her  independence  for  a  little  while. 

But,  whether  because  of  the  flickering  firelight,  or  because 
of  the  strangeness  of  the  great  brass  bedstead,  with  its  silken 
liangings  and  many-coloured  Indian  rezai,  Erica  slept  very  little 
that  night.  Perhaps  the  long  talk  about  her  father's  early  days 
had  taken  too  great  a  hold  of  her.  At  any  rate,  she  tossed 
about  veiy  restlessly  in  her  luxurious  quarters,  and  when,  for 
brief  intervals,  she  slept,  it  was  only  to  dream  of  her  father 
taking  leave  of  his  Scottish  home,  and  always  he  borr  that  flint- 
like face,  that  look  of  strong  endurance  and  repressed  passion 
which  Elspeth  had  described,  and  which,  in  times  of  trouble 
and  injustice,  Erica  had  learnt  to  know  80  well. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LADY  Caroline's  dixxer. 

The  blank  amaze  of  your  haughty  gaze, 
The  cold  surprise  of  patrician  eyes. 

Letvis  Mobris. 

But  the  paucity  of  Christians  is  astonishing,  considering  the  number 
of  them.  Leigh  Hunt. 

The  irritation,  oi*,  any  rate,  tlie  novelty  of  the  luxury  in  the 
Fane-Smith's  household  wore  off  after  Erica  had  spent  a  few 
days  at  Greyshot.  She  became  accustomed  to  the  great  rooms, 
and  being  artistic  by  nature  and  the  reverse  by  education,  she 
began  very  much  to  enjoy  the  pictures,  the  charming  variety  of 
foreign  treasures,  and  particularly  all  the  lovely  things  of 
Indian  workmanship  witli  which  the  drawing-room  was  crowded. 
The  long,  formal  meals  she  learnt  to  endure.  The  absurdly 
large  retinue  of  servants  ceased  to  oppress  her ;  she  used  to 
amuse  herself  by  speculating  as  to  the  political  views  of  the  men- 
servants  !  while  the  luxury  of  a  daily  drive  with  her  aunt  she 
very  much  appreciated. 

But,  though  the  mere  externals  were  soon  fiimiliar  enoiagh, 
she  found  that  eveiy  day  increased  the  difficulty  she  felt  in 
becoming  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere  of  this  family.  She 
had  lived  all  her  life  with  people  who  were  overwhelmed  with 
work,  and  in  a  home  where  recreation  was  only  the  rare  con- 
cession to  actual  health.  Here  recreation  seemed  to  be  the 
business  of  life,  while  work  for  the  pubHc  was  merely  tacked 
on  as  a  sort  of  oi'namental  fringe. 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  had,  indeed,  a  few  committee  meetings  to 
attend;  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  visited  her  district  once  a  fortnight, 
and  distributed  tracts,  and  kind  words,  and  soup-ticlvcts,  and 
blanket-tickets,  besides  the  most  lavish  gifts  from  her  own 
purse.  Rose,  to  please  her  mother,  taught  a  class  of  little  girls 
on  Sunday  afternoon — that  is  to  say,  she  did  not  teach  them, 
but  she  sat  in  a  chair  and  heard  them  say  collects,  and  enforced 
orderly  behaviour  upon  them,  and  read  them  a  good  little  story- 
book. But  these  were  merely  rather  tiresome  duties  which 
came  in  very  often  as  provoking  interruptions  to  the  great 
business  of  life,  namely  eating,  drinking,  dining-out,  giving 
dinners,  or  attending  the  endless  succession  of  at  homes, 
dances,  musical  evenings,  amateur  theatricals,  by  which  Grey- 
shot  people  tried  to  kill  time. 


212  LADY  Caroline's  dinner. 

As  to  taking  aiiy  intelligent  interest  in  the  political  world, 
no  one  seemed  to  dream  of  such  a  tiling,  except  Mr.  Fane-Smith, 
who  read  the  paper  at  breakfast,  and  hurled  anathemas  at  all 
the  statesmen  whom  Erica  had  learnt  to  love  and  revere.  It 
taxed  her  patience  to  the  utmost  to  sit  through  the  daily  dia- 
tribe against  Sir  Michael  Cunningham,  her  hero  of  heroes.  But 
even  the  violent  o])position  seemed  preferable  to  the  want  of 
interest  shown  by  the  others.  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  had  time  to 
fritter  away  at  least  half-an-hour  after  breakfast  in  the  most 
desultory  conversation,  the  most  fruitless  discussion  with  Rose 
as  to  some  detail  of  dress ;  but  she  always  made  the  excuse 
that  she  'had  no  time'  to  read  the  papers,  and  amused  Erica  not 
a  little  by  asking  her  husband  if  'anything  particular  had  been 
happening  lately,'  when  they  were  just  starting  for  a  dinner- 
party. Out  of  his  little  rerliaiife  of  the  week's  news  she 
probably  extracted  enough  information  to  enable  her  to  display 
that  well-bred  interest,  that  vague  and  superficial  acqiiaintanco 
with  the  subject  which  will  pass  muster  in  society,  and  which 
probably  explains  alke  the  very  vapid  talk  and  the  wildly  false 
accusations  which  form  the  staple  of  ordinary  conversation. 

Rose  was  even  more  perplexing.  She  was  not  only  ignorant, 
but  she  boasted  of  her  ignorance.  Again  and  again  Erica  heard 
her  depx'ecate  the  introduction  of  any  public  question. 

'Oh,  don't  begin  to  talk  of  that!'  she  would  exclaim.  *I 
know  nothing  about  it,  and  never  mean  to  know  anything.' 

Or  there  would  be  an  imploring  appeal. 

'  Why  do  you  waste  your  time  in  talking  politics  when  you 
have  never  told  me  a  word  about  so-and-so's  wedding  ? ' 

She  occasionally  read  the  Court  Circular,  and  was  rather 
fond  of  one  or  two  of  the  'society '  papers,  from  which  she  used 
to  glean  choice  little  paragraphs  of  personal  gossip. 

Once  one  of  these  papers  gave  Erica  an  imcomfortablo 
experience.  The  elders  of  the  party  being  out  for  the  evening, 
Rose  and  Erica  had  the  drav.-ing-room  to  themselves,  and  Erica 
was  really  enjoying  the  rare  novelty  of  talking  with  a  girl  of 
her  own  age.  Rose,  although  the  most  arrant  little  flirt,  was 
fond,  too,  of  her  girl-friends,  and  she  really  liked  Erica,  and  en- 
joyed the  fund  of  initiating  her  into  all  the  mysteries  and  delights 
of  society. 

'How  did  you  get  your  nameV  she  asked  suddenly.  'It 
is  so  pretty  and  so  uncommon.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Erica,  without  thinking,  '  I  was  called  after  my 
father's  friend,  Eric  Haeberlein.' 

'Eric  Haeberlein?'  exclaimed  Rose.     '  Whv,  I  was  reading 


LADY  Caroline's  dinner.  213 

Bomcthli-;g  about  him  this  afternoon.  Here  it  is— look  !'  and, 
after  seai-ching  the  cohmms  of  her  favourite  '  society'  paper,  she 
pointed  to  the  following  pai'agraph  : — 

'  It  is  now  known  as  a  positive  fact  that  the  notorious  Eric 
Haeberlein  was  actually  in  London  last  week  in  connection  with 
the  disgraceful  Kelluer  business.  On  dit  that  he  escaped 
detection  through  the  instrumentahty  of  one  of  the  fair  sex, 
whose  audacity  outweighed  her  modesty.' 

Erica  could  hardly  have  restrained  her  indignation  had  not 
two  real  dangers  drawn  off  her  attention  from  her  own  wounded 
feelings.  Her  father — was  there  any  hateful  hint  that  he  was 
mixed  up  with  Her  Kelhier  ]  She  glanced  anxiously  down  the 
page.  No,  at  least  that  falsehood  had  not  been  promulgated. 
She  breathed  more  freelj^,  but  there  was  danger  still,  for  Rose 
was  watching  her,  and  feminine  curiosity  is  hard  to  baffle. 

'Did you  know  about  it?'  she  asked. 

Erica  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  read  on,  to  gain  time  ; 
then  she  threw  down  the  paper  with  an  exclamation  of  disgust. 

'How  can  you  read  such  stuff  1' 

'  Yes,  but  is  that  the  Eric  Haeberlein  you  were  named 
after?     Did  he  really  come  to  London  and  escape?' 

'  There  is  only  one  Eric  Haeberlein  in  the  world  that  I  know 
of,'  said  Erica.  '  But  I  think.  Rose,  I  was  wrong  and  foolish  to 
mention  him.  I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  him,  and,  even 
if  I  could,  there  is  my  promise  to  Aunt  Isobel.  If  I  am  not  to 
talk  to  you  about  my  father,  I  certainly  ought  not  to  talk 
about  his  friends.' 

Rose  acquiesced,  and  never  suspected  any  mystery.  She 
chatted  on  happily  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  brought  down  a 
great  collection  of  old  ball-cards,  and  with  a  sort  of  loving  re- 
collection described  each  very  mimitely,  j  ust  as  some  old  nurses 
have  a  way  of  doing  with  the  funeral-cards  of  their  deceased 
friends.  This  paved  the  way  for  a  spontaneous  confession  that 
she  really  preferred  Mr.  Torn,  the  curate  of  St.  Matthew's,  to 
Captain  Golightly,  though  people  were  so  stupid,  and  would 
say  she  was  in  love  with  him  just  because  they  flirted  a 
little  sometimes.  Rose  had  already  imagined  herself  in  love 
with  at  least  a  dozen  people,  and  was  quite  ready  to  discuss 
every  one  of  her  flirtations,  but  she  was  disappointed  to  find 
that  her  cousin  was  either  very  reserved  on  the  subject,  or  else 
had  nothing  to  say. 

Erica  sat  listening  with  a  sort  of  wonder,  not  unmixed  with 
disgust.  Perhaps  she  might  have  shown  her  disapprobation 
had  she  not  been  thankful  to  have  the  conversation  diverted 


214  LADY  CAKOLIXE's  DIKXER. 

from  the  dangerous  topic ;  besides,  the  cruel  words  -were  still 
rankling  in  her  heart,  and  woven  in  with  Rose's  chatter  she  heard 
continually,  '  whose  audacity  outAvcighed  her  modesty.'  For 
the  first  time  she  fully  understood  why  her  father  had  so  re- 
luctantly consented  to  her  scheme ;  she  began  to  feel  the  sting 
which  lay  beneath  the  words,  the  veiled  '  hint,'  the  implied  evil, 
more  wounding,  more  damaging  than  an  outspoken  lie.  Now  that 
she  understood  the  ways  of  society  better,  she  saw,  too,  that  what 
had  seemed  to  her  an  unquestionable  duty  would  be  regarded 
as  a  grave  breach  of  custom  and  etiquette.  She  began  to 
qi;estion  herself.  Had  she  been  right  1  It  mattered  very  little 
what  the  writer  of  a  'society'  paper  said  of  her,  if  s!ie  had 
done  the  really  right  thing.  "What  had  she  done  1  To  save  her 
father's  friend  from  danger,  to  save  her  father  from  unmerited 
suspicion,  she  had  gone  oiit  late  in  the  evening  v,hh  a  man 
considerably  ovev  fifty,  whom  she  had  known  from  her  baby- 
hood. He  had,  it  is  true,  been  in  the  disguise  of  a  young  man. 
She  had  talked  to  him  on  the  platform  much  as  she  would  have 
talked  to  Tom,  and  to  save  his  almost  certain  detection,  had 
sprung  into  the  carriage,  thrown  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him.  Had  audacity  outweighed  her  modesty  ]  Why, 
all  the  time  she  had  been  thanking  God  for  having  allowed  her 
to  undertake  the  difficult  task  for  her  father  on  that  particular 
evening.  She  had  done  it  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  should  she 
'now  make  herself  miserable  because  the  world  was  Avanting  in 
that  charity  which  '  thinketh  no  eviH'  No,  she  had  been 
right — of  that  she  Avas  certain.  Nevertheless,  she  understood 
Avell  enough  that  society  would  condemn  her  action,  and  Avould 
with  a  smile  condone  Hose's  most  outrageous  flirtation. 

The  first  Aveek  in  a  noAV  place  always  seems  long,  and  Erica 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  aAvay  from  home  for  months  by  the  time 
it  Avas  over.  Every  one  had  been  very  kind  to  her  so  far,  but 
except  Avhen  she  Avas  playing  lawn-tennis  she  Avas  somehow  far 
from  happ3'.  Her  happiest  moments  Avere  really  those  which 
she  spent  in  her  own  room  before  breakfast,  Avriting  ;  and  the 
Daily  Ih'view  owed  S'nne  very  lively  articles  to  the  Grej'shot 
visit.  Beyond  a  sort  of  clan  feeling  for  her  aunt,  and  a  real 
liking  for  Hose — Avho,  in  spite  of  her  follies,  Avas  good-humoured 
and  very  loveable — she  had  not  yet  found  one  ])oint  of  iniion 
Avit.h  her  how  relations.  Even  possible  topics  of  conversation 
Avero  ha)"d  to  find.  They  cared  nothing  for  politics,  they  cared 
nothing  for  science,  they  Avere  none  of  them  book-loA-ers,  and  it 
Avas  against  their  sense  of  etiquette  to  speak  of  anything  but 
the  eitcriiOiS  v.i  religion.     Worst  of  all,  any  allusion  to  home 


LADY  Caroline's  dinner.  215 

matters,  any  mention  of  her  father  had  to  be  avoided.  Little 
was  left  but  the  mere  gossip  of  the  neighbourhood,  which,  except 
as  a  social  study,  could  not  interest  Erica. 

Greyshot  was  an  idle  place ;  the  church  seemed  asleep,  a 
drowsy  indifference  hung  about  the  richer  inhabitants,  while 
the  honest  workers  not  unnaturally  banded  themselves  to- 
gether against  the  sleepily  respectable  Church-goers,  and 
Secularism  and  one  or  two  other  '  Isms '  made  rapid  advances. 
Then  sleepy  orthodoxy  lifted  its  drowsy  head  for  a  minute, 
noted  the  evil,  and  abused  Mr.  Raeburn  and  his  fellow-workers, 
lamenting  in  many-syllabled  words  the  depravity  of  the 
working  classes  and  the  rapid  spread  of  infidelity.  But  nothing 
came  of  the  lament;  it  never  seemed  to  strike  them  that  they 
must  act  as  well  as  talk,  that  they  must  renounce  their  useless, 
wasteful,  un-Christian  lives  before  they  had  even  a  right  to  lift 
up  their  voices  against  Secularism,  which  certainly  did  in  some 
measure  meet  the  needs  of  the  people.  It  never  seemed  to  strike 
them  that  they  were  the  real  promoters  of  infidelity, — that  they 
not  only  dishonoured  the  name  of  Christ,  but  by  their  incon- 
sistent lives  disgusted  people  with  Christianity,  and  then 
refused  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  them.  Luke 
Eaeburn,  if  he  pulled  down  with  the  one  hand,  at  any  rate 
tried  hard  to  build  up  with  the  other ;  but  the  people  of  Grey- 
shot  caused  in  a  great  degree  the  ruin  and  downfall,  and  then 
exclaimed  '  How  shocking  ! '  and  turned  their  backs,  thinking  to 
shift  their  blame  on  to  the  Secularist  leaders. 

As  fiir  as  society  goes,  they  succeeded  in  thus  shifting  the 
blame ;  the  world  laid  it  all  on  Luke  Raeburn,  he  was  a  most 
convenient  scape-goat,  and — so  widely  does  conventional  Chris- 
tianity differ  from  the  religion  founded  by  Christ — it  soon 
became  among  a  certain  set  almost  equivalent  to  a  religious  act 
to  promulgate  bits  of  personal  scandal  about  him,  flavoured,  of 
coux'se,  with  wordy  lamentations  as  to  the  views  he  entertained. 
Thus,  under  the  name  of  defenders  of  religion,  conventional 
Christians  managed  to  appear  very  proper  and  orthodox,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  dispose  comfurtably  of  all  their  sense  of 
responsibility.  There  was  a  meanness  about  their  way  of  doing 
it  which  might  have  made  the  very  angels  weep?  Happily 
the  judgments  of  society  are  not  the  judgments  of  God. 

One  of  the  leaders  of  society  was  a  certain  Lady  Caroline 
Kiteley ;  she  Avas  a  good-natured,  hospitable  creature,  very 
anxious  that  every  one  should  enjoy  life,  and  a  great  favourite 
with  all  the  young  people,  because  she  made  much  of  them 
and  gave  delightful  dances.     The  elders,  too,  liked  her,  and 


216  LADY  Caroline's  dinner. 

were  not  obliviox^s  to  the  fact  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  an 
earl,  and  the  widow  of  a  distingiiislied  general.  Erica  had 
seen  her  more  than  once  diiring  her  visit,  and  had  been  intro- 
duced to  her  by  Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  as  'my  niece.' 

Now,  it  happened  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  and  Ptoso 
were  to  dine  with  Lady  Caroline  the  week  after  Erica's  arrivah 
On  the  very  day  of  the  dinnei*-paiiy,  however.  Rose  was  laid 
up  with  a  bad  cold,  and  her  mother  was  obliged  to  write  and 
make  her  excuses.  Late  in  the  afternoon  there  came  in  reply 
one  of  Lady  Caroline's  impulsive  notes. 

*  Dear  Mks,  FANE-SiiiTn, 

'Scold  that  silly  daughter  of  yours  for 
catching  cold  ;  give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  that  I  was 
counting  on  her  very  much.  Please  bring  your  pretty  niece 
instead. 

'  Yours  sincerely, 

*  Caroline  Kiteley.' 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  was  glad  and  sorry  at  the  same  time,  and 
veiy  much  perplexed.  Such  a  peremptory  but  open-hearted 
invitation  could  not  be  declined,  yet  there  were  dangers  in  the 
acceptance.  If  Erica's  name  should  transpire,  it  might  be  very 
awkward,  but  she  had  not  broached  the  suggested  change  of 
name  to  her,  and  every  day  her  couraged  dwindled — every  day 
that  resolute  mouth  frightened  her  more.  She  was  quite  aware 
that  Exica's  steady,  courageous  honesty  would  unspai'ingly  con- 
demn all  her  small  weaknesses  and  little  expedients. 

Erica,  when  told  of  the  invitation,  was  not  particularly 
anxious  to  go,  for  she  and  llosc  had  been  planning  a  cosy 
evening  at  home  over  a  new  novel  upon  which  their  tastes 
really  agreed.  However,  Rose  assured  her  that  Lady  Caroline's 
parties  wci-e  always  delightful,  and  hunted  her  off  to  dress  at 
least  an  hour  before  there  was  any  necessity.  Rose  was  a  great 
authority  on  dress,  and,  when  her  cousin  returned,  began  to 
study  her  attire  critically. 

She  wore  a  very  simply-made  dress  of  moss-green  velveteen, 
high  to  the  throat,  and  relieved  by  a  deep  falling  collar  of  old 
point.  Elspeth  had  brought  her  a  spray  of  white  Banksia 
roses,  but  otherwise  she  wore  no  ornament.  Her  stjde  was 
very  difierent  from  her  cousin's ;  but  Rose  could  not  help 
approving  of  it,  its  severity  suited  Erica. 

'You  look  lovely?'  she  exclaimed.  'Lady  Caroline  will 
quite  lose  her  heart  to  you  !     I  think  you  should  have  that 


LADY  CAROLi:;r;  s  dinner.  217 

dress  cut  low  in  front,  tliongli.  It  is  a  shame  not  to  show  such 
a  pretty  neck  as  you  must  have.' 

'Oh,  no!'  said  Erica,  quickly;  'father  can't  endure  low 
dresses.' 

'  One  can't  always  dress  to  please  one's  father,'  said  Rose. 
'  For  the  matter  of  that,  I  believe  papa  doesn't  like  them  ;  but 
I  always  wear  them.  You  see  it  is  more  economical,  one  must 
dress  much  more  expensively  if  one  goes  in  for  high  dresses.  A 
little  display  of  neck  and  arms,  and  any  old  rag  will  look  dressy 
and  fashionable,  and  though  I  don't  care  about  economy, 
mamma  docs.' 

'  You  don't  have  an  allowance  then  1 ' 

'  No  ;  papa  declared  I  ought  to  dress  on  eighty  pounds 
a-year,  but  I  never  could  make  both  ends  meet,  and  I  got  a 
tiresome  long  bill  at  Langdon's,  and  that  vexed  him,  so  now  I 
get  what  I  like  and  mamma  pays.' 

Erica  made  no  comment,  but  was  not  a  little  amazed. 
Presently  ]\li'S.  Fane-Smith  came  in,  and  seemed  well  pleased 
with  her  niece's  appearance. 

'  You  have  the  old  point ! '  she  exclaimed. 

'Aunt  Jean  gave  it  me,'  said  Erica.  'She  never  would 
part  with  it  because  it  was  grandmamma's — at  least,  she  did 
sell  it  once,  when  father  was  ill  years  ago,  and  we  were  at  our 
wit's  end  for  money,  but  she  got  it  back  again  before  the  end 
of  the  year. 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  coloxu'ed  deeply,  partly  at  the  idea  of  her 
mother's  lace  being  taken  to  a  pawnbroker's,  partly  to  hear 
that  her  brother  and  sister  had  ever  been  reduced  to  such 
straits.  She  made  an  excuse  to  take  Erica  away  to  her  room, 
and  there  questioned  her  more  than  she  had  yet  done  about 
her  home. 

'  I  thought  your  father  was  so  strong,'  she  said.  '  Yet  you 
speak  as  if  he  had  had  several  illnesses.' 

'  He  has,'  replied  Erica.  '  Twice  I  can  remember  the  time 
when  they  thought  him  dying,  besides  after  the  riot  last  year. 
Yes,  he  is  strong ;  but,  you  see,  he  has  such  a  hard  life.  It  is 
bad  enough  now,  and  I  doubt  if  any  one  knows  how  fearfully 
he  overworked  himself  during  the  year  in  Amei'ica.  The  other 
day  I  had  to  look  something  up  in  his  diary  for  him,  and  not 
till  then  did  I  find  out  how  terribly  he  must  have  taxed  his 
strength.  On  an  average  he  got  one  night's  rest  in  the  week,  on 
the  others  he  slept  as  well  as  he  could  in  the  long  cars,  which 
are  wretchedly  uncomfortable  ;  the  sleeping-cars  being  expensive, 
he  wouldn't  go  in  them.' 


218  LADY  Caroline's  dinner. 

Mrs.  Fanc-Smitli  sighed.  Her  brother  was  becoming  more 
of  a  living  reality  to  her  ;  she  thought  of  him  less  as  a  type  of 
Avickeclness.  The  recollection,  too,  that  she  had  been  all  her 
life  enjoying  the  money  which  he  and  her  sister  Jean  had 
forfeited  by  their  opinions,  made  her  grieve  the  more  over  the 
little  details  of  poverty  and  privation.  Old  JMr.  Ruebnrn  had 
left  all  his  money  to  her,  bequeathing  to  his  other  daughter 
and  to  his  reprobate  sou  the  sum  of  one  shilling,  with  the  hope 
that  heaven  would  bring  them  to  a  better  mind.  It  was  some 
comfort  to  learn  from  Erica  that  at  lust  the  terrible  load  of 
debt  had  been  cleared  of,  and  that  they  Avere  comparatively 
free  from  trouble  just  at  present. 

With  these  thoughts  in  her  mind,  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  found 
herself  on  her  way  to  Lady  Caroline's ;  but  her  developing 
breath  of  view  was  destined  to  receive  a  severe  shock.  They 
were  the  last  guests  to  arrive,  and  at  the  very  moment  of  their 
enti-ance  Lady  Caroline  was  talking  in  her  most  vivacious 
way  to  Mr,  Cuthbert,  a  young  clergyman,  the  vicar  of  one  of 
the  Greyshot  churches. 

'  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  treat,  Mr.  Cutlibert,'  she  said, 
laughingly,  '  I  know  you  are  artistic,  and  so  I  intend  you  to 
take  down  that  charming  neice  of  Mrs,  Fane-Smith's.  I  assure 
you  she  is  like  a  Burne-Jones  angel.' 

Mr.  Cuthbert  smiled  a  quietly  superior  smile,  and  coolly 
surveyed  Erica  as  she  came  in.  Dinner  was  announced  almost 
immediately,  and  it  was  not  until  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  had  been 
taken  down  that  Lady  Caroline  brought  Mr.  Cuthbert  to  Erica's 
side  to  inti'oduce  him. 

'  Why,  your  aunt  has  never  told  me  your  name,'  she  said, 
smiling. 

'  May  name  is  Erica  Raebxirn,'  said  Erica,  quite  unconscious 
that  this  was  a  revelation  to  every  one,  and  that  her  aunt  had 
purposely  spoken  of  her  everywhere  as  '  my  niece.' 

Lady  Caroline  gave  a  scarcely  perceptible  start  of  surprise, 
and  there  was  a  curious  touch  of  doubt  and  constraint  in  her 
voice  as  she  pronounced  the  'Mr.  Cuthbert — Miss  Haeburn.' 
Undoubtedly  tliat  name  sounded  rather  strangely  in.  her 
drawing-room,  and  awoke  uncomfortable  suggestions. 

'  Raeburn  ! — Erica  Raebui'n  ! '  thought  Mr.  Cuthbert  to  him- 
self. '  Uncommon  name  in  England.  Connexion,  I  wonder  ! 
Aunt  hadn't  given  her  name  !  That  looks  odd.  Fll  see  if  she 
has  a  Scotch  accent. 

'  Are  you  staying  in  Greyshot  1 '  he  asked  as  they  went  down, 
the  broad  staircase,  with  its  double  border  of  flowering  plants. 


LADY  Caroline's  dinner.  219 

'  Ytd.'  said  Erica ;  '  I  came  last  week.  What  lovely  country 
it  is  about  here  ! ' 

'  Country,'  with  its  thrilled  '  r,'  betrayed  her  nationality, 
though  her  accent  was  of  the  slightest.  Mr.  Cuthbert  chvickled 
to  himself,  for  he  thought  he  had  caught  Mrs.  Fane-Smith 
tripping,  and  he  was  a  man  who  deriA^ed  an  immense  amount 
of  pleasure  from  making  other  people  uncomfortable.  As  a 
child,  he  had  been  a  tease  ;  as  a  big  boy,  he  had  been  a  bully  ; 
as  a  man,  he  had  become  a  malicious  gossip-monger.  To-night 
he  thought  he  saw  a  chance  of  good  sport,  and  directly  he  had 
said  grace,  in  the  momentary  pause  which  usually  follows,  he 
turned  to  Erica  with  an  abrupt,  though  outwardly  courteous 
question  can-ied  off  with  a  little  laugh. 

'  I  hope  you  are  no  relation  to  that  despicable  infidel  who 
bears  your  name.  Miss  Raeburn  1 ' 

Erica's  colour  deepened  ;  she  almost  annihilated  him  with  a 
flash  from  her  bright  indiguant  eyes. 

'  I  am  Luke  Raeburn's  daughter,'  she  said,  in  her  clearest 
voice,  and  with  a  dignity  which,  for  the  time,  spoilt  Mr. 
Cuthbert's  enjoyment. 

Many  people  had  heard  the  vicar's  question  during  the 
pause,  and  not  a  few  listened  curiously  for  the  answer  which, 
though  quietly  spoken,  reached  many  ears,  for  nothing  gives  so 
much  penetrating  power  to  words  as  concentrated  will  and  keen 
indignation.  Before  long  every  one  in  the  room  knew  that  Mrs. 
Fane-Smith's  pretty  niece  was  actually  the  daughter  of  *  that 
evil  and  notorious  Raeburn.' 

Mr.  Cuthbert  had  certainly  got  his  malicious  wish  ;  he  had 
succeeded  in  making  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  miserable,  in  making  his 
hostess  furious,  in  putting  his  little  neighbour  into  the  most 
uncomfortable  of  positions.  Of  course  he  was  not  going  to 
demean  himself  by  talking  to  'that  atheist's  daughter.'  He 
enjoyed  the  general  discomfiture  to  his  heart's  content,  and  then 
devoted  himself  to  the  lady  on  his  other  side. 

As  for  Erica  her  blood  was  up.  Forced  to  sit  still,  forced 
even  to  eat  at  a  table  where  she  was  an  unwelcome  guest,  her 
anger  got  the  masteiy  of  her  for  the  time.  She  was  indignant 
at  the  insult  to  her  father,  indignant,  too,  that  her  ainit  had 
ever  allowed  her  to  get  into  such  a  false  position.  The  very 
constraint  she  was  forced  to  put  vipon  herself  made  her  wrath 
all  the  deeper.  She  was  no  angel  yet,  though  Mr.  Bnrne-Jones 
might  have  taken  her  for  a  model.  She  was  a  quick-tempered 
little  piece  of  humanity  ;  her  passions  burnt  with  Highland 
intensity,  her  sense  of  indignation  was  strong  and  keen,  and  the 


220  LADY  Caroline's  dinner 

atmosphere  of  her  home,  the  hard  struggle  against  intolerable 
bigotr}'  and  malicious  persecution  had  from  her  very  babyhood 
tended  to  inerease  this.  She  had  inherited  all  her  father's 
passion  for  justice,  and  much  of  his  exessive  pride,  -while  her 
delicate  physical  frame  made  her  far  more  sensitive.  Moreover, 
though  since  that  June  morning  in  the  museum  she  had  gained  a 
peace  and  happiness  of  -vshich  in  the  old  days  she  had  never 
dreamed,  yet  the  entire  change  had  in  many  'ways  increased  the 
difficulties  of  her  life.  Such  a  Avrench,  such  an  upheaval  as  it 
had  involved,  could  not  but  tell  upon  her  immensely.  And, 
besides,  she  had  in  every  way  for  the  last  three  mouths  been 
living  at  high  pressure. 

The  grief,  the  disapproval,  the  contemptuous  pity  of  her 
Secularist  friends  had  taxed  her  strength  to  the  utmost,  but 
she  had  stood  firm,  and  had  indeed  been  living  on  the  heights. 
Now  the  months  of  Charles  Osmond's  careful  preparation  were 
over,  her  baptism  was  over,  and  a  little  weary  and  overdone 
with  all  that  she  had  lived  through  that  summer,  she  had  come 
down  to  Greyshot  expecting  rest,  and  behold,  fresh  vexatious 
had  awaited  her  ! 

A  nice  Christian  world  !  A  nice  type  of  a  clergyman  !  she 
thought  to  herself,  as  bitterly  as  in  the  old  days,  and  with  a 
touch  of  sorrow  added.  The  old  lines  from  '  Hiawatha,'  which 
had  been  so  often  on  her  lips,  now  rang  in  her  head, 

'  For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was.' 

She  longed  to  get  up  and  go,  but  that  would  have  put  her 
aunt  in  a  yet  more  painful  position,  and  might  have  annoyed 
Lady  Caroline  even  more  than  her  j^resence.  She  would  have 
given  an3-thing  to  have  fainted  after  the  convenient  fashion  of 
the  heroines  of  romance,  but  never  had  she  felt  so  completely 
strung-iip,  so  conscious  of  intense  vitality.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  endurance.  And  for  two  mortal  hours  she  had  to  sit 
and  endure  !  Mr.  Cuthbcrt  never  spoke  to  her ;  her  neighbour 
on  the  other  side  glanced  at  her  furtively  from  time  to  time, 
but  preserved  a  stony  silence  ;  there  was  an  luicomfortable 
cloud  on  her  hostess's  brow ;  Avhile  her  aunt,  whom  she  could 
see  at  some  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  looked  very 
white  and  wretched. 

It  is  wonderful  how  rude  people  can  be,  even  in  good 
Bociety,  and  the  looks  of  '  blank  amaze,'  '  cold  surprise,'  and 
cool  curiosity  which  Erica  received  would  hardly  be  credited.     A 


LADY  Caroline's  dinneu.  221 

greater  purgatory  to  a  sensitive  girl,  whose  pride  was  by  no 
means  conquered,  can  hardly  be  conceived. 

She  choked  down  a  little  food,  unable  to  reject  everything, 
but  her  throat  almost  refused  to  swallow  it.  The  glare  of  the 
lights,  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  the  babel  of  tongues  seemed 
to  beat  upon  her  brain,  and  a  sick  longing  for  home  almost 
overmastered  her.  Oh,  to  get  away  from  these  so-called  Chris- 
tians, with  their  cruel  judgments,  their  luxuries,  their  gaieties, 
— these  hard,  rich  bigots,  who  yet  belonged  to  the  body  she 
had  just  joined,  with  whom,  in  the  eyes  of  her  old  friends,  she 
should  be  identified'?  Oh,  for  the  dear  old  book-lined  study  at 
home  !  for  one  moment  with  her  father  !  one  word  from  a  being 
who  loved  and  trusted  her  !  Tears  started  to  her  eyes,  but  the 
recollection  that  even  home  was  no  longer  a  place  of  refuge 
checked  them.  There  would  be  Aunt  Jean's  wearing  remon- 
strances and  sarcastic  remarks ;  there  would  be  ]Mr.  Master- 
man's  patronising  contempt,  and  Tom's  studious  avoidance  of 
the  matters  she  had  most  at  heart.  Was  it  worse  to  be  treated 
as  a  well-meaning  idiot,  or  as  an  outcast  and  semi-heretic  1 
Never  till  now  had  she  so  thoroughly  realised  her  isolation,  and 
she  felt  so  bruised  and  buffeted  and  weary  that  the  realisation 
at  that  particular  time  was  doubly  trying. 

Isolation  is  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  trials  to  a  sensitive 
and  warm-hearted  nature,  and  nothing  but  the  truest  and 
deepest  love  for  the  whole  race  can  possibly  keep  an  isolated 
person  from  growing  bitter.  Erica  knew  this,  had  known  it 
ever  since  Brian  had  brought  her  the  message  from  her  rr^other, 
*  It  is  only  love  that  can  keep  from  bitterness.'  All  through 
these  years  she  had  been  struggling  hard,  and  though  there 
had  been  constant  temptations,  though  the  harshness  of  the 
bigoted,  the  insults  offered  to  her  father  in  the  name  of 
religion,  the  countless  slights  and  slanders  had  tried  her  to  the 
utmost,  she  had  still  struggled  upward,  and  in  spite  of  all  had 
grown  in  love.  But  now,  for  the  first  time,  she  found  herself 
completely  isolated.  The  injustice,  the  hardness  of  it  proved 
too  much  for  her.  She  forgot  that  those  who  would  be  peace- 
makers— reconcilers,  must  be  content  to  receive  the  treatment 
which  the  Prince  of  Peace  received  ;  she  forgot  that  these  rich, 
contemptuous  people  were  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  that 
their  hard  judgment  did  not  and  could  not  alter  their  relation- 
ship ;  she  forgot  all  in  a  bui'ning  indignation,  in  an  angry  revolt 
against  the  injustice  of  the  world. 

She  would  study  these  people,  she  would  note  all  their 
little  weaknesses   and   foibles !      Mr.  Bircham  had  given  her 


222  LADY  Caroline's  dinner. 

carte  blanche  for  these  three  weeks ;  she  would  write  him  a 
deliciously  sarcastic  article  on  modern  society.  The  idea  fired 
her  imagination,  she  laughed  to  herself  at  the  thought  ;  for, 
however  sad  the  fact,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  to  ordinary 
mortals  'revenge  is  sweet.'  Had  she  given  herself  time  to 
think  out  matters  calmly,  she  would  have  seen  that  both 
Christianity  and  the  rules  of  art  were  opposed  to  her  idea.  It 
is  true  that  Michael  Angelo  and  other  painters  use  to  revenge 
themselves  on  the  cardinals  or  enemies  they  most  hated  by 
painting  them  in  the  guise  of  devils,  but  both  they  and  their 
art  suffered  by  such  a  concession  to  an  animal  passion.  And 
Erica  fell  grieviously  that  evening.  This  is  one  of  the  evils  of 
social  ostracism.  It  is  unjust,  unnatural,  and  selfish.  To 
pi-eserve  what  it  considers  the  dignity  of  society,  it  drives  human 
beings  into  an  unnatural  position  ;  it  fosters  the  very  evils 
which  it  denounces.  And  society  is  grossly  unfair.  A  word,  a 
breath,  a  false  libel  in  a  newspaper  is  quite  sufficient.  It  will 
never  trouble  itself  to  inquire  minut-'ly  into  the  truth,  but  will 
pronounce  its  hasty  j  udgment,  and  then  ostracise  ! 

Erica  began  to  listen  attentively  to  the  conversation,  and  it 
must  be  owned  that  it  was  not  very  edifying.  Then  she 
studied  the  faces  and  manners  of  her  companions,  and,  being 
almost  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  she  had  a  pretty  good  view. 
Every  creature  she  studied  maliciously,  keenly,  sarcastically, 
until  she  came  to  the  end  of  the  table,  and  there  a  most 
beautiful  face  brought  her  back  to  herself  for  a  minute  with  a 
sort  of  shock.  Where  had  she  seen  it  before  ?  A  strong  manly 
face  of  the  Roman  type,  clean-shaven,  save  for  a  very  slight 
moustache,  which  did  not  conceal  the  firm  yet  sensitive  mouth; 
dark  eyes,  which  even  as  she  wondered  met  hers  fully  for  an 
instant,  and  gave  her  a  strange  feeling  of  protection.  She 
knew  that  at  least  one  person  in  the  room  did  not  shudder 
at  the  idea  of  sitting  at  table  with  Luke  Raebvirn's  daughter. 

Better  thoughts  returned  to  her,  she  grew  a  little  ashamed 
of  her  malice,  and  began  to  wonder  who  that  ideal  men  could 
be.  Apparently  he  was  one  of  the  distinguished  guests,  for  he 
had  taken  down  Lady  Caroline  herself.  Erica  was  just  too  far 
off  to  hear  what  he  said,  and  in  another  moment  she  was 
suddenly  recalled  to  Mr.  Cuthbert.  He  was  talking  to  the  old 
gentleman  on  her  left  hand,  who  had  been  silently  surveying 
her  at  intervals  as  though  he  fancied  she  could  not  be  quite 
human. 

'Have  you  been  following  this  Kellner  trial]'  asked  Mr. 
(Juthbert.     *  Disgraceful  affair,  isn't  it  1 ' 


LADY  CAROLtNE's  DINNER.  223 

Then  followed  references  to  Eric  Haeberlein,  and  veiled 
hints  about  his  London  friends  and  associates — more  dangerous 
to  the  country  than  any  foreigners,  '  traitors,  heady,  high- 
minded,'  &c.  «fec.  Such  evil-doers  always  managed  to  keep 
within  the  letter  of  the  law  ;  but,  for  his  part,  he  thought  they 
deserved  to  be  shut  up,  more  than  most  of  those  who  got  penal 
servitude  for  life ! 

Erica's  w^ath  blazed  up  again.  Of  course  the  veiled  hints 
■were  intended  to  refer  to  her  father,  and  the  cruelty  and 
insolence  of  the  speaker, — who  knew  that  she  understood  his 
allusions — scattered  all  her  better  thoughts.  It  required  a 
strong  effort  of  will  to  keep  her  anger  and  distress  from  be- 
coming plainly  visible.  Her  unwillingness  to  give  Mr.  Cuth- 
bei't  such  a  gratification  could  not  have  strengthened  her 
sufficiently,  but  love  and  loyalty  to  her  f;ither  and  JCric  Haeber- 
lein  had  carried  her  through  worse  ordeals  than  this. 

She  showed  no  trace  of  embarrassment,  but  moved  a  very 
little  further  back  in  her  chaii',  implying,  by  a  sort  of  quiet 
dignity  of  manner,  that  she  thought  Mr.  Cuthbert  exceedingly 
ill-mannered  to  talk  across  her. 

Feeling  that  his  malicious  endeavour  had  entirely  failed, 
and  stung  by  her  dignified  disapproval,  Mr.  Cuthbert  struck 
out  vindictively.  Breaking  the  silence  he  had  maintained 
towards  her,  he  suddenly  flashed  round  upon  her  with  a 
question. 

'  I  suppose  you  are  intimately  acquainted  with  Eric 
Haeberlein  1 ' 

He  tried  to  make  his  tone  casual  and  seemingly  courtcovis, 
but  faiied. 

'  What  makes  you  suppose  that  1 '  asked  Erica,  in  a  cool, 
quiet  voice. 

Her  perfect  self-control,  and  her  exceedingly  embarrassing 
counter-question,  quite  took  him  aback.  At  that  very  minute, 
too,  there  was  the  pause,  and  the  slight  movement,  and  the 
glance  from  Lady  Caroline  which  reminded  him  that  he  was 
the  only  clergyman  present,  and  had  to  return  thanks.  He 
He  bent  forward,  and  went  through  the  usual  foi'm  of '  For  what 
we  have  received,'  though  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  of  the 
'  counter-check  quarrelsome '  he  had  received  from  his  next- 
door  neighbour.  When  he  raised  his  head  again,  he  found  her 
awaiting  his  answer,  her  clear,  steady  eyes  quietly  fixed  on 
his  face  with  a  look  which  was  at  once  sad,  indignant,  and 
questioning. 

His  question  had  been  an  insulting  one.     He  had  meant  it 


224  A  FRIEND. 

to  prick  and  sting,  but  it  is  one  thing  to  be  indirectly  rude, 
and  another  to  give  the  '  lie  direct.'  Her  quiet  return  ques- 
tion, her  dignity,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  insult  her 
openly.  He  was  at  her  mei'cy.  He  coloured  a  little,  stam- 
mered something  incoherent  about  '  thinking  it  possible.' 

'  You  ai-e  perfectly  right,'  replied  Erica,  still  speaking  in 
her  quietly  dignified  voice.  '  I  have  known  Herr  Haeberlein 
since  I  was  a  baby,  so  you  will  tuiderstand  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  for  me  to  speak  with  you  about  him  after  hearing 
the  opinions  you  expressed  just  now.' 

For  once  in  his  life  Mr.  Cuthbert  felt  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  did  not  feel  comfortable  all  through  dessert,  and  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  when  the  ladies  left  the  room. 

As  for  Erica's  other  neighbour,  he  could  not  help  reflecting 
that  Luke  Ilaeburn's  daughter  had  had  the  best  of  it  in  the 
encounter.  And  he  wondered  a  little  that  a  man,  whom  he 
had  known  to  do  many  a  kindly  action,  should  so  completely 
have  forgotten  the  rules  of  ordinary  courtesy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  FRIEND. 

Then,  my  friend,  we  must  not  regard  what  the  many  say  of  us ;  but 
what  he,  the  one  man  who  has  understanding  of  just  and  unjust,  ^^iU 
say,  and  what  the  truth  will  say.  And  therefore  you  begin  in  error  when 
you  suggest  that  we  should  regard  the  opinion  of  the  many  about  just 
and  unjust,  good  and  evil,  honourable  and  dishonourable.  Plato 

In  tlie  di'awing-room  Erica  found  the  ostracism  even  more 
complete  and  more  embarrassing.  Lady  Caroline  who  was 
evidently  much  annoyed,  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  her, 
but  was  careful  to  monopolise  the  one  friendly -looking  person 
in  the  room,  a  young  mai'ried  lady  in  pale  blue  silk.  The 
other  ladies  separated  into  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  and 
ignored  her  existence.  Lady  Caroline's  little  girl,  a  child  of 
twelve,  was  well-bred  enough  ■  to  come  towards  her  with  some 
shy  remark,  but  her  mother  called  her  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room  quite  sharply,  and  made  some  excuse  to  keep  her  there, 
as  if  contact  with  Luke  Racburn's  daughter  would  have 
polluted  her. 

A  weaiy  half-hour  passed.  Then  the  door  opened  and  the 
gentlemen  filed  in.     Erica,  half  angry,  half  tired,  and  wholly 


A  FRIEND.  225 

miserable,  was  revolving  in  her  brain  some  stinging  sentences 
for  her  article  "when  the  beautiful  face  again  checked  her.  Her 
'  Roman,'  as  she  called  him,  had  come  in,  and  was  looking 
round  the  room,  apparently  searching  for  some  one.  At  last 
their  eyes  met,  and,  with  a  look  which  said  as  plainly  as  words, 
'Oh,  there  you  are!  it  was  you  I  wanted,'  he  came  straight 
towards  her, 

'  You  must  forgive  me.  Miss  Raeburn,  for  dispensing  with 
an  introduction,'  he  said ;  '  but  I  hardly  think  we  shall  need 
any  except  the  name  of  our  mutual  friend,  Charles  Osmond.' 

Erica's  heart  gave  a  bound.  The  familiar  name,  the  con- 
sciousness that  her  wretched  loneliness  was  at  an  end,  and 
above  all,  the  instantaneous  perception  of  the  speaker's  nobility 
and  breadth  of  mind,  scattered  for  the  time  all  her  resentful 
thoughts — made  her  again  her  best  self. 

'Then  you  must  be  Donovan!'  she  exclaimed,  with  the 
quaint  and  winsome  frankness  which  was  one  of  her  greatest 
charms.      '  I  knew — I  was  sure  you  were  not  like  other  people.' 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  no  longer  wondered  at  Brian's 
seven  years'  hopeless  waiting.  But  Erica  began  to  realise  that 
her  exclamation  had  been  appallingly  unconventional,  and  the 
beautiful  colour  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  she  said,  remembering  with  horror 
that  he  was  not  only  a  stranger  but  an  M.P.,  '  I — I  don't  know 
what  made  me  say  that,  but  they  have  always  spoken  of  you 
by  your  Christian  name,  and  you  have  so  long  been  "Donovan" 
in  my  mind  that — somehow  it  slipped  out — you  didn't  feel  like 
a  stranger.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that,'  he  said,  his  dark  and  strangely  powerful 
eyes  looking  right  into  hers.  Something  in  that  look  made 
her  feel  positively  akin  to  him.  Like  a  stranger  !  Of  course 
he  had  not  felt  like  one  !  Never  could  be  like  anything  but  a 
friend  !  '  You  see,'  he  continued,  '  we  have  known  of  each 
other  for  years,  and  we  know  that  we  have  one  great  bond  of 
union  which  others  have  not.  Don't  retract  the  "  Donovan  " — 
I  like  it.  Let  it  be  the  outward  sign  of  the  real  and  unusual 
likeness  in  the  fight  we  have  foii^-ht.' 

She  still  half  hesitated.  He  was  a  man  of  five  and  thirty, 
and  slie  could  not  get  over  the  feeling  that  her  impulsive  ex- 
clamation had  been  presumptuous.  He  saw  her  uncertainty, 
and  perhaps  liked  her  the  better  for  it,  though  the  delicious 
naturalness,  the  child-like  recognition  of  a  real  though  scarcely 
known  friend,  had  delighted  him. 

*  We  are  a  little  more  brother  and  sister  than  the  rest  of 


226  A  FRIEND. 

the  world,'  he  said,  with  the  chivah-ous  manner  which  seemed 
to  belong  naturally  to  his  peculiarly  noble  face.  'And  if  I 
were  to  confess  that  I  had  not  always  thought  of  you  as  "Miss 
Raeburn  " ' 

He  paused,  and  Erica  laughed,  It  was  absurd  to  stand  on 
ceremony  with  this  kindred  spirit; 

'Have  you  seen  the  conservatory]'  he  asked.  'Shall  we 
come  in  there  1     I  want  to  hear  all  about  the  Osmonds.' 

The  relief  of  speaking  with  one  who  knew  and  loved  Charles 
Osmond,  and  did  not,  for  w^ant  of  real  knowledge,  brand  him 
with  the  names  of  half-a-dozen  heresies,  was  very  great.  It 
was  not  for  some  time  that  Erica  even  glanced  at  the  lovely 
sui-roundings,  though  she  had  inherited  Raeburn's  great  love  of 
flowers.  At  last,  however,  an  exquisite  white  flower  attracted 
her  notice,  and  she  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 

'  Oh,  how  lovely  !  I  never  saw  anything  like  that  before. 
What  is  it?' 

'  It  is  the  euchari'i  amazonica,'  replied  her  companion. 
'  About  the  most  exquisite  flower  in  the  world,  I  should  think 
— the  "  dove  flower,"  as  my  little  ones  call  it.  If  you  look  at 
it  from  a  distance,  the  stamens  really  look  like  doves  bending 
down  to  drink.' 

'  It  is  perfeA<. !     How  I  wish  my  father  could  see  it !' 

'  We  hav9  0.  fairly  good  one  at  Oakdene,  tliough  not  equal 
ti  this.  Wa  must  persuade  you  and  Mr.  Raeburn  to  come  and 
stay  with  i>s  some  day.' 

The  t^ars  came  into  Erica's  eyes,  so  great  was  the  contrast 
between  this  friendliness  and  the  chilling  discourtesy  she  had 
met  with  from  others  that  evening. 

'You  are  very  good,'  she  said.  'If  you  only  knew  how 
hard  it  is  to  be  treated  as  if  one  were  a  sort  of  semi-criminal  !' 

'I  do  know,'  he  said.  'It  was  this  very  society  which 
goaded  me  into  a  sort  of  wild  rebellion  years  ago.  I  deserved 
its  bad  opinion  in  a  measui*e,  and  you  do  not,  but  it  was  unfair 
enough  to  make  one  pretty  desperate.' 

'  if  they  were  actual  saints,  one  might  endure  it,'  cried 
Erica.  '  But  to  have  such  a  man  as  my  father  condemned  just 
on  hearsay  by  people  who  are  living  lazy,  wasteful  lives,  is 
really  too  much !  I  came  to  Greyshot  expecting  at  least  iinity, 
at  least  peace  in  a  Christian  atmosphere,  and  this  is  what 
I  get!' 

Donovan  listened  in  silence,  a  great  sadness  in  his  eyes. 
There  was  a  pause  ;  then  Eiica  continued  :  '  \ou  think  I  speak 
hotly.     I  cannot  help  it.     I  think  I  do  not  much  mind  what 


A  FRIEND.  227 

they  do  to  me,  but  it  is  the  injustice  of  the  thing  that  makes 
one  wild,  and  worst  of  all,  the  knowing  that  this  is  what  drives 
people  into  atheism — this  is  what  dishonours  the  name  of  Christ.' 

'  You  are  right,'  he  replied,  with  a  sigh  ;  '  that  is  the  worst 
of  it.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  to  be  tolerant  to  the 
intolerant  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  life.' 

'You  must  have  plenty  of  practice  in  this  dreadful  place,' 
said  Erica. 

He  smiled  a  little. 

'  Why,  to  be  seen  talking  to  me  will  make  people  say  all 
sorts  of  evil  of  you,'  she  added.  '  I  wish  I  had  thought  of  that 
before.' 

'  You  wouldn't  have  spoken  to  me  1 '  asked  Donovan, 
laughing.  '  Then  I  am  very  glad  it  didn't  occur  to  you.  But 
about  that  you  may  be  quite  easy  ;  nothing  covild  make  them 
think  much  worse  of  me  than  they  do  already.  I  began  life  as 
the  black  sheep  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  it  is  easier  for  the 
Ethiopian  to  change  his  skin  than  for  a  man  to  live  down  the 
past  in  public  opinion.  I  shall  be,  at  any  rate,  the  dusky  grey 
sheep  of  the  place  to  the  end  of  my  life.' 

There  was  no  bitterness,  no  shade  of  complaint  in  his  tone ; 
he  merely  stated  a  fact.  Erica  was  amazed ;  she  knew  that  he 
was  about  the  only  man  who  attempted  to  grapple  with  the 
evil  and  degradation  and  poverty  of  Greyshot. 

'You  see,'  he  continued,  with  the  bright  look  which  seemed 
to  raise  Erica  into  a  purer  atmosphere,  'it  is  not  the  pviblic 
estimation  which  makes  a  man's  character.  There  is  one  ques- 
tion which  I  think  we  ought  never  to  ask  ourselves,  and  that 
is,  "What  will  people  think  of  mcl"  It  should  be  instead, 
"How  can  I  serve?"' 

'  But,  if  they  take  away  your  power,  how  can  you  serve  ]' 

'  They  can't  take  it  away ;  they  may  check  and  hinder  for 
a  time,  that  is  all.  I  believe  one  may  serve  always  and 
everywhere.' 

'  You  don't  mean  that  I  can  serve  that  roomful  of  enemies 
in  there  1' 

'  That  is  exactly  what  I  do  mean,'  he  answered,  smiling  u 
little. 

In  the  meantime.  Lady  Caroline  was  apologising  to  Mr. 
Cuthbert. 

'I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so  vexed  !'  she  exclaimed. 
*  It  is  really  too  bad  of  Mrs.  Fane-Smith.  I  had  no  idea  that 
the  Burne-Jones  angel  I  promised  you  was  the  daughter  of  that 
disgraceful  man.     What  a  horrible  satire,  is  it  not  ]' 


228  A  FRIEND. 

'Pray,  don't  apologise/  said  Mr.  Cutlibert.  'It  was 
really  rather  amusiug  than  otherwise,  and  I  fancy  the  young 
lady  Avill  be  in  no  great  hun-y  to  force  her  way  into  society 
again.' 

He  laughed  a  soft,  malicious,  chuckling  laugh. 

'I  should  hope  not,  indeed,'  said  Lady  Caroline,  indig- 
nantl3\     'Where  has  she  disappeared  tol' 

'  Need  you  ask  V  said  IMr,  Cutlibert,  smiling.  '  Our  revered 
member  secured  her  at  once,  and  has  been  talking  to  her  in 
the  conservatory  for  at  least  half-an-hour,  hatching  radical 
plots,  I  dare  say,  and  vowing  vengeance  on  all  aristocrats.' 

'  Really  it  is  too  shocking  ! '  said  Lady  Caroline.  '  Mr. 
Farrant  has  no  sense  of  Avhat  is  fitting ;  it  is  a  trait  which  I 
have  always  noticed  in  Radicals.  He  ought,  at  least,  to  have 
some  respect  for  his  position.' 

'  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,'  suggested  Mr.  Cutlibert, 
with  his  malicious  smile. 

'  Well,  I  don't  often  defend  Mr.  Farrant,'  said  Lady  Caro- 
line. '  But  he  comes  of  a  good  old  family,  and,  though  a 
Radical,  he  is  at  least  respectable.' 

Lady  Caroline  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  Erica,  but 
uttered  the  last  sentence,  with  its  vague,  far-reaching,  and  most 
damaging  hint,  without  even  a  pricking  of  conscience. 

'You  will  try  to  rescue  the  M.P.'?'  asked  Mr.  Cutlibert. 

'For  the  sake  of  his  position,  yes,'  said  Lady  Caroline, 
entering  the  conservatory. 

'  Oh  !  Mr.  Farrant,'  she  said,  with  her  most  gracious  smile, 
'  I  came  to  see  whether  you  couldn't  induce  your  wife  to  sing 
to  us.  Now,  is  it  true  that  she  has  given  up  her  music?  I 
assure  you  she  and  I  have  been  battling  the  point  ever  since 
you  came  up.  Can't  you  persuade  her  to  give  us  just  one 
sougl     I  am  really  in  despair  for  some  music.' 

'  I  am  afraid  my  wife  is  quite  out  of  voice,'  said  Donovan, 
'Are  there  no  other  musical  people]' 

'  Not  one.  It  is  really  most  astonishing.  I  was  counting 
on  Miss  Fane-Smith,  but  she  has  disappointed  me,  and  there  is 
not  another  creature  who  will  play  or  sing  a  note.  Greyshot  is 
a  terribly  mimusical  place.' 

'You  do  not  belong  to  Greyshot,  so  perhaps  you  maybe 
able  to  come  to  the  rescue,'  said  Donovan  to  Erica.  '  Scotch 
people  can,  at  any  rate,  always  play  or  sing  their  own  national 
airs  as  no  one  else  can.' 

Lady  Caroline  did  not  really  in  the  least  care  whether 
there  were  music  or  not,  but  she  had  expressed  herself  very 


A  FRIEND.  229 

Btrongly,  and  that  tiresome  Mr.  Farraut  had  taken  her  at  her 
word,  and  was  trying  to  beat-up  recruits — recruits  that  she  did 
not  want.  He  had  now,  whether  intentionally  or  not,  put  her 
in  such  a  position  that,  unless  she  were  positively  rude,  she 
must  ask  Erica  to  play  or  sing. 

'  Have  you  brought  any  music,  Miss  Raeburn  ] '  she  asked, 
turning  to  Erica  with  a  chilling  look,  as  though  she  had  just 
become  aware  of  her  presence. 

'  I  have  none  to  bring,'  said  Erica.  '  I  do  not  profess  to 
sing  ;  I  only  sing  our  own  Scotch  airs.' 

'  Exactly  what  I  said  ! '  exclaimed  Donovan.  '  And  Scotch 
singing  of  Scotch  airs  is  like  nothing  else  in  the  world.' 

Whether  he  mesmerised  them  both,  or  whether  his  stronger 
will  and  higher  purpose  prevailed,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 
Certainly  Erica  was  quite  as  unwilling  to  sing  as  Lady  Caroline 
was  to  favour  her  with  a  request.  Both  had  to  yield,  however, 
and  Erica,  whether  she  would  or  not,  had  to  serve  her  roomful 
of  enemies — and  a  great  deal  of  good  it  did  her. 

Out  of  the  quiet  conservatory  they  came  into  the  heat  and 
glare  and  Babel  of  voices  ;  Lady  Caroline  feeling  as  if  she  had 
been  caught  in  her  own  trap,  Erica  wavering  between  resentful 
defiance  and  the  desire  to  substitute  Donovan's  '  How  can  I 
serve  1 '  for  '  What  do  they  think  1 ' 

She  sat  down  to  the  piano,  Avhich  was  in  a  far-away  corner, 
and  soon  she  had  forgotten  her  audience  altogether.  Although 
she  had  had  little  time  or  opportunity  for  a  thorough  musical 
education,  she  had  great  taste,  and  was  musical  by  nature  ;  she 
sang  her  national  airs  as  very  fcAv  could  have  sung  them,  and 
so  wild  and  pathetic  was  the  air  she  had  chosen,  '  The  Flowers 
of  the  Forest,'  that  the  roar  of  conversation  at  once  ceased. 
She  knew  nothing  whatever  about  the  listeners ;  the  air  had 
taken  her  back  to  her  father's  recovery  at  Codrington  the  year 
befoi'e.     She  was  singing  to  him  once  more. 

The  old  gentleman  who  had  sat  on  her  right  hand  at  dinner 
came  up  now  with  his  first  remark. 

'  Thank  you,  that  was  a  real  treat,  and  a  very  rare  treat. 
I  wonder  whether  you  would  sing  an  old  favourite  of  mine — 
*  Oh,  why  did  ye  gang,  lassie  1 ' 

Erica  at  once  complied,  and  there  was  such  pathos  in  her 
low,  clear  voice,  that  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one 
listener.  She  had  never  dared  to  sing  that  song  at  home  since 
one  evening  some  weeks  before,  wlien  her  father  had  just 
walked  out  of  the  room,  unable  to  bear  the  mournful  refrain — 
'  I  never,  never  thought  ye  wad  leave  me  ! '     The  song  was 


230  A  FRIEND. 

closely  associated  with  the  story  of  that  summer,  and  she  sang 
it  to  perfection. 

Donovan  Farrant  came  towards  her  again  at  the  close. 

*  I  want  to  introduce  my  wife  to  you,'  he  said. 

And  Erica  found  that  the  young  married  lady  in  the  pale 
blue  silk,  Avhom  she  hnnl  singled  out  as  the  one  approachable 
lady  in  the  room,  was  Mrs.  Farrant,  She  was  very  bright,  and 
sunshiny,  and  talkative.  Erica  liked  her,  and  Avould  have 
liked  her  still  better  had  not  the  last  Aveek  shown  her  so  much 
of  the  unreality  and  insincerity  of  society,  that  she  half  doubted 
whether  anyone  she  met  in  Greyshot  could  be  quite  true.  ]\Irs. 
Farrant's  manner  was  charming,  but  charming  manners  had 
often  turned  out  to  be  exceedingly  artificial,  and  Erica,  who 
was  in  rather  a  hard  mood,  Avould  not  let  herself  be  won  over, 
but  held  her  judgment  in  suspension,  responding  brightly 
enough  to  her  companion's  talk,  but  keeping  the  best  part  of 
herself  in  reserve. 

At  length  the  evening  ended,  and  the  guests  gradually  dis- 
persed. Mr.  Cuthbert  walked  across  the  road  to  his  vicarage, 
still  chuckling  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  the  general  discom- 
fiture caused  by  his  question,  The  musical  old  gcutlcmaii 
returned  to  his  home  revolving  a  startling  new  idea  :  after 
all,  might  not  the  Raeburns  and  such  people  be  very  much 
like  the  rest  of  the  world  ]  Were  they  not  probably  a3  sus- 
ceptible to  pain  and  pleasure,  to  comfort  and  discomfort,  to 
rudeness  and  civility  1  He  regretted  very  much  that  he  had 
nob  broken  the  miserably  vincomfurtable  silence  at  dinner. 

Donovan  Farrant  and  his  wife  were  already  far  from 
Greyshot,  driving  along  the  quiet  country  road  to  Oakdcne 
Manor. 

'  A  lovely  girl,'  !Mrs.  Farrant  was  saying.  '  I  should  like  to 
know  her  better.  To-night  I  had  the  feeling  somehow  that 
she  was  purposely  keeping  on  the  surface  of  things,  one  came 
every  now  and  then  to  a  sort  of  wall,  a  kind  of  hard  reserve.' 

'  Who  can  wonder  ! '  exclaimed  Donovan.  '  I  am  afraid, 
Gladys,  the  old  j)rovei'b  will  have  a  very  fair  chance  of  being 
fulfilled.  That  child  has  come  out  seeking  wool,  and  as  likely 
as  not  she'll  go  home  sliorn.' 

'  Society  can  be  very  cruel  !  '  sighed  Gladj's.  '  I  did  so 
long  to  get  to  her  aflci*  dinner ;  but  Lady  Caroline  kept  me,  I 
do  believe,  purposely.' 

'  Lady  Caroline  and  Mr.  Cuthbert  will  little  dream  of  the 
harm  they  liavc  done,'  said  Donovan.  '  I  think  I  luidorstand 
as  1  ncA'cr  under.'^tood  licforc  the  burning  indignation  of  that 


A  FRIEND.  231 

rebuke  to  the  Phai-isecs, — "  Full  well  ye  reject  the  command- 
ment of  God  that  ye  may  keep  your  own  traditions." ' 

In  the  meantime  there  was  dead  silence  in  the  Fane-Smiths' 
carriage,  an  ominous  silence.  There  was  an  unmistakeable 
cloud  on  Mr.  Fane-Smith's  face ;  he  had  been  exceedingly 
annoyed  at  what  had  taken  place,  and,  with  native  perversity, 
attributed  it  all  to  Erica.  His  wife  was  miserable.  She  felt 
that  her  intended  kindness  had  proved  a  complete  failure  ; 
she  was  afraid  of  her  husband's  clouded  brow,  still  more  afraid 
of  her  niece's  firmly-closed  mouth,  most  afraid  of  all  at  the 
thought  of  Lady  Caroline's  displeasure.  Nervous  and  over- 
wrought, anxious  to  conciliate  all  parties,  and  afraid  of  making 
matters  worse,  she  timidly  went  into  Erica's  room,  and,  after 
beating  about  the  bush  for  a  minute  or  two,  plunged  rashly 
into  the  sore  subject. 

'  I  am  so  sorry,  dear,  about  to-night,'  she  said.  '  I  wish  it 
covdd  have  been  prevented.' 

Erica,  standing  up  straight  and  tall  in  her  velveteen  dress, 
with  a  white  shawl  half  thrown  back  from  her  shouldei's, 
looked  to  her  aunt  terribly  dignified  and  uncompromising. 

'  I  can't  say  that  I  thought  them  courteous,'  she  replied. 

'  It  was  altogether  ixnfortunate,'  said  Mrs.  Fane-Smith, 
hurriedly.  '  I  hoped  your  name  would  not  transpire  ;  I  ought 
to  have  suggested  the  change  to  you  before,  but ' 

'  What  change  ] '  asked  Erica,  her  forehead  contracting  a 
little. 

'  "We  thought — Ave  hoped  that  perhaps,  if  you  adopted  onr 
name,  it  might  prevent  unpleasantness.  Such  things  are  done, 
you  know,  and  then,  too,  we  might  make  some  arrangement 
about  your  grandfather's  money,  a  part  of  which  I  feel  is  now 
yours  by  right.  Even  now  the  change  would  show  people  the 
truth,  would  save  many  disagreeables.' 

Daring  this  speech  Erica's  face  had  been  a  study  ;  an  angry 
glow  of  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  flashed  danger- 
ously. She  was  a  young  girl,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the 
lion  about  her  at  that  minute,  and  her  aunt  trembled,  listening 
perforce  to  the  indignant  outburst. 

'  What  truth  would  it  show  ] '  she  cried.  '  I  don't  believe 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  truth  among  all  these  wretched  shams  ! 
I  will  never  change  my  name  to  escape  from  prejudice  and 
bigotry,  or  to  win  a  share  in  my  grandfather's  property ! 
What !  give  up  my  father's  name  to  gain  the  money  which 
might  have  kept  him  from  pain,  and  ruin,  and  semi-starvation  ? 
Take  the   money  that    might    have   brought   comfort   to    my 


232  A  FRIEND. 

mother  ! — that  might  have  kept  me  with  her  to  the  end!  I 
couldn't  take  it  1  I  would  rather  die  than  touch  one  penny  of 
it !  It  is  too  late  noAv.  If  you  thought  I  -u-ould  consent — if 
that  is  the  reason  you  asked  me  here,  I  can  go  at  once,  I 
would  not  willingly  have  brought  shame  upon  you,  but  neither 
will  I  dishonour  myself  nor  insult  my  father  by  changing  my 
name,  Wh}-,  to  do  so,  would  be  to  proclaim  that  I  judged  him 
as  those  Pharisees  did  to-night !  The  hypocrites  !  Which  of 
them  can  show  one  grain  of  love  for  the  race,  to  set  against  my 
father's  life  of  absolute  devotion  1  They  sit  over  their  cham- 
pagne and  slander  atheists,  and  then  have  the  face  to  call 
themselves  Christians  ! ' 

'  My  dear ! '  said  Mrs.  Fane-Smith,  nervously,  our  only 
wish  is  to  do  what  is  best  for  you  ;  but  you  are  too  tired  and 
excited  to  discuss  this  now.     I  will  wish  you  good-night.' 

'  I  never  wish  to  discuss  it  again,  thank  you,'  said  Erica, 
submitting  to  a  particularly  warm  embrace. 

Mrs.  Fane-Smith  was  right  in  one  way.  Erica  was  intensely 
excited.  When  people  have  been  riding,  rough-shod,  over  one's 
heart,  one  is  apt  to  be  excited,  and  Luke  Eaeburn's  daughter 
had  inherited  that  burning  sense  of  indignation  which  Avas  so 
strongly  marked  a  characteristic  in  Raeburn  himself.  Violins 
can  be  more  sweet  and  delicate  in  tone  than  any  other  instru- 
ment, but  they  can  also  wail  with  greater  pathos,  and  produce 
a  more  fearful  storm  of  passion. 

Declining  any  assistance  from  Gemma,  Erica  locked  her 
door,  caught  up  some  sheets  of  foolscap,  snatched  up  her  pen, 
and  began  to  write  rapidly.  She  knew  well  enough  that  she 
ought  not  to  have  written.  But  Avhen  the  heart  is  hot  with 
indignation,  Avhen  the  brain  pro.duces  scathing  sentences,  when 
the  subject  seems  to  have  taken  possession  of  the  whole  being, 
to  deny  it  utterance  is  quite  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world. 

Erica  struggled  to  resist,  but  at  length  yielded,  and  out 
rushed  sarcasms,  denunciations,  return  blows  innumerable ! 
The  relief  was  great.  However,  her  enjoyment  was  but  short, 
for  by  the  time  her  article  was  rolled  up  for  the  post,  stamped 
and  directed,  her  physical  powers  gave  Avay ;  such  blank  ex- 
haustion ensuing  that  all  she  could  do  was  to  drag  herself 
across  the  room,  throw  herself,  half-di'essed,  on  the  bed,  draw 
the  rezai  over  her,  and  yield  to  the  heavy,  overpowering 
slumber   of  great   weariness. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  slept  for  about  five  minutes,  and 
was  then  roused  by  a  knocking  at  her  door.  She  started  up, 
and  found  that  it  was  morning.     Then  she  rcculloctcd  bolting 


A  FRIEND.  233 

her  door,  and  sprang  out  of  bed  to  undo  it,  but  was  reminded 
at  once  that  she  had  a  spine.  She  had  quite  recovered  from 
the  effects  of  her  ihiess,  but  over-fatigue  always  brought  back 
the  old  pain,  and  warned  her  that  she  must  be  more  careful  in 
the  future.  The  housemaid  seemed  a  little  surprised  not  to 
find  her  up  and  dressed  as  usual,  for  Erica  generally  got 
through  an  hom-'s  writing  before  the  nine  o'clock  breakfast. 

'  Are  you  ill,  miss  ]'  she  asked,  glancing  at  the  face  which 
seemed  alnaost  as  colourless  as  the  pillow. 

'  Only  very  tired,  thank  you,'  said  Erica,  glad  enough  to- 
day of  the  cup  of  tea  and  the  thin  bread-and-butter,  which 
before  had  seemed  to  her  such  an  absurd  luxury. 

'  Letters  for  the  early  post,  miss,  I  suppose,'  said  the  house- 
maid, taking  up  the  fiery  efi^usion. 

'  Please,'  replied  Erica,  not  turning  her  head,  and  far  too 
weary  to  give  a  thought  to  her  last  night's  work.  All  she 
could  think  of  just  then  was  the  usual  waking  reflection  of  a 
sufferer — '  How  in  the  world  shall  I  get  through  the  day  V 

The  recollection,  however,  of  her  parting  conversation  with 
her  aunt  made  her  determined  to  be  down  to  breakfast.  Her 
absence  might  be  misconstrued.  And  though  feeling  ill-pre- 
pared for  remonstrance  or  argument,  she  was  in  her  place  when 
the  gong  sounded  for  prayers,  looking  white  and  weary  indeed, 
but  with  a  curve  of  resoluteness  about  her  month.  Nobody 
found  out  how  tired  she  was.  Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  as  blind  as 
a  bat,  and  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  was  too  low-spirited  and  too  much 
absorbed  with  her  own  cares  to  notice.  The  events  of  last 
night  looked  more  and  more  disagreeable,  and  she  was  burdened 
Avith  thoughts  of  what  people  would  say ;  moreover,  Rose's 
cold  was  much  worse,  and  as  her  mother  was  miserable  if  even 
her  little  finger  ached,  she  was  greatly  disturbed,  and  persuaded 
herself  that  her  child  was  really  in  a  most  dangerous  state. 

Breakfast  proved  a  very  silent  meal  that  morning,  quite 
oppressively  silent ;  Erica  felt  like  a  child  in  disgrace.  Eveiy 
now  and  then  the  grimness  of  it  appealed  to  her  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  she  felt  inclined  to  scream  or  do  something  desperate 
just  to  see  what  would  happen.  At  length  the  dreary  repast 
came  to  an  end,  and  she  had  just  taken  up  a  newspaper,  with 
a  sort  of  gasp  of  relief  at  the  thought  of  escaping  for  a  moment 
into  a  larger  world,  when  she  was  recalled  to  the  narrow  circle 
of  Greyshot  by  a  word  from  Mr.  Fane-Smith. 

'  I  wish  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  my  dear ;  will  you  come 
to  the  library  at  ten  o'clock  1' 

An  interview  by  appointment !  That  sounded  formidable  ! 
11 


234  A  RIIEND. 

When  the  time  came,  Erica  went  rather  apprehensively  to  the 
library,  fearing  that  she  was  in  for  an  argument,  and  wishing 
that  Mr.  Fane-Smith  had  chosen  a  day  on  Avhich  she  felt  a 
little  more  up  to  things. 

He  received  her  very  kindly,  and  drew  an  easy  chair  up  to 
the  fire  for  her,  no  doubt  doing  as  he  would  be  done  by,  for  he 
was  a  chilly  Indian  mortal.  Erica  had  never  been  into  the 
library  before.  It  was  a  delightful  room,  furnished  with  old 
carved  oak  and  carpeted  with  soft  Indian  rugs.  Though  dig- 
nified by  the  name  of  library,  it  was  not  nearly  so  crowded 
with  books  as  the  little  study  at  home  ;  all  the  volumes  were 
beautifully  bound  in  much  begilt  calf  or  morocco,  but  they  had 
not  the  used  loved  look  of  her  father's  books.  On  the  mantel- 
piece there  was  some  models  of  Indian  idols  exquisitely  carved 
in  soft,  greenish-grey  soap-stone,  and  behind  these,  as  if  in 
protest,  lurked  the  only  unornamental  thing  in  the  room,  a 
very  ordinary  missionary  box,  covered  with  orange-coloured 
paper  and  impressively  black  negroes. 

'  I  am  sure,  my  dear,' said  Mr.  Fane  Smith,  'that  after  what 
occurred  last  night  you  will  see  the  desirability  of  thinking 
seriously  about  your  plans  for  the  future.  I  have  been  intend- 
ing to  speak  to  you,  but  waited  until  we  had  learnt  to  know 
each  other  a  little.  Howevei',  I  regret  now  that  I  delayed. 
It  is  naturally  far  from  desirable  that  you  should  remain  an 
inmate  of  your  father's  house,  and  my  wife  and  I  should  be 
very  glad  if  you  would  make  your  home  with  us.  Of  course, 
when  it  was  fully  understood  in  Grej^shot  that  you  had  utterly 
renounced  your  father  and  your  former  friends,  such  un- 
pleasantness as  you  encountered  last  night  would  not  again 
occur ;  indeed,  I  fancy  you  woidd  become  exceedingly  popular. 
It  would  perhaps  have  been  wiser  if  you  would  have  taken  our 
name,  but  your  aunt  tells  me  you  object  to  that.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Erica,  who  was  writhing  with  anger,  and  relieved 
herself  by  the  slight  sarcasm,  '  I  do  object  to  be  Miss  Feign- 
Fane-Smith.' 

'  Well,  that  must  be  as  you  please,'  he  resumed ;  '  but  I 
really  think  if  you  will  accept  our  offer  it  will  be  for  your 
ultimate  good.' 

He  proceeded  to  enumerate  all  the  benefits  which  would 
accrue  to  her ;  then  paused. 

Erica  was  silent  for  a  minute.  When  she  spoke  it  was  in 
the  low  voice  of  one  who  is  struggling  to  restrain  passion. 

'  I  am  sure  you  mean  this  very  kindly,'  she  said.  '  I  have 
tried  to  "listen  to  your  offer  patiently,  though,  of  course,  the 


A  FRIEND.  235 

moment  you  began,  I  knew  that  I  must  entirely — emphatically 
decline  it.     I  will  never  leave  my  father  ! ' 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  a  sort  of  half-resti-ained 
outbui'st,  as  if  the  pent-up  passion  must  find  some  outlet. 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  startled.  He  so  seldom  thought  of 
Luke  Raeburn  as  a  fellow-being  at  all,  that  perhaps  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  the  love  of  parent  to  child,  and 
child  to  parent,  is  quite  independent  of  creed. 

'But,  my  dear,'  he  said,  'you  have  been  baptized.' 

'  I  have.' 

'  You  promised  to  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works.' 

'  I  did.' 

*  Then  how  can  you  hesitate  to  renounce  everything  con- 
nected with  your  former  life?' 

'  Do  you  mean  to  iiuply  that  my  father  is  the  devil — or  one 
of  his  works  V 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  silent.     Erica  continued. 

'  God's  Fatherhood  does  not  depend  on  our  knowledge  of  it, 
or  acceptance  of  it,  it  is  a  fact — a  triith  !  How  then  can  any 
one  dare  to  say  that  such  a  man  as  my  father  is  a  work  of  the 
devil !  I  thought  the  sin  of  sins  was  to  attribute  to  the  devil 
what  belongs  to  God  !' 

'You  are  in  a  very  peculiar  position,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith, 
uneasily.  '  And  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  difficult  for  you  to  see 
things  as  they  really  are.  But  I,  who  can  look  at  the  matter 
dispassionately,  can  see  that  your  remaining  in  your  old  home 
would  be  most  dangerous,  and  not  only  that,  but  most  painful ! 
To  live  in  a  house  where  you  hear  all  that  you  most  reverence 
evil  spoken  of ;  why,  the  pain  Avould  be  unspeakable  ! ' 

'  I  know  that,'  said  Erica,  in  a  low  voice,  '  I  have  found 
that, — I  admit  that  it  is  and  always  will  be  harder  to  bear 
than  any  one  can  conceive  who  has  not  tried.  But  to  shirk 
pain  is  not  to  follow  Christ.  As  to  danger,  if  you  will  forgive 
my  saying  so,  I  should  find  a  luxurious  life  in  a  place  like 
Greyshot  infinitely  more  trying.' 

'  Then  coixld  you  not  take  up  nursing  1  Or  go  into  some 
sisterhood  1  Nothing  extreme,  you  know,  but  just  a  working 
sisterhood.' 

Erica  smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  Why  should  I  try  to  make  another  vocation  when  God  has 
already  given  me  one  V 

'  But,  my  dear,  consider  the  benefit  to  your  own  soul.' 

*  A  very  secondary  consideration  ! '  exclaimed  Erica, 
impetuously. 


23G  A  FKIEND 

'  I  should  have  thought,'  coutinued  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  *  that 
under  such  strange  circumstances  you  would  have  seen  how 
necessary  it  was  to  forsake  all.  Think  of  St,  Matthew,  for 
instance,  he  rose  up  at  once,  forsook  all,  and  followed  Him.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Erica.  '  And  what  was  tlie  very  first  thing  he 
was  impelled  tc  do  by  way  of  "  following  V  Why,  to  make  a 
great  feast  and  have  in  all  his  old  friends,  all  the  despised 
publicans.' 

'My  dear  Erica,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  feeling  his  theological 
argnments  worsted,  '  we  must  discuss  this  matter  on  practical 
grounds.  In  plain  words,  your  father  is  a  very  bad  man,  and 
you  ought  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.' 

Erica's  lips  turned  white  with  anger;  butshe  answered  calmly, 

'  That  is  a  very  great  accusation.  How  do  you  know  it  is 
true  1 ' 

'  I  know  it  well  enough,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith.  *  Why,  every- 
one in  England  knows  it.' 

'  If  you  accept  mere  heresay  evidence,  you  may  believe  any- 
thing of  any  one.     Have  you  ever  read  any  of  my  father's  books  V 

'No.' 

'  Or  heard  him  lecture  V 

'  No,  indeed,  I  would  not  hear  him  on  any  account.' 

'  Have  you  ever  spoken  with  any  of  his  intimate  friends  V 

'  Mr.  Raebuni's  acquaintances  are  not  likely  to  mix  with 
any  one  I  should  know.' 

'  Then,'  cried  Erica,  '  how  can  you  know  anything  whatever 
about  him?  And  how — how  dare  you  say  to  me,  his  child, 
that  he  is  a  wicked  maul' 

'  It  is  a  matter  of  common  notoriety.' 

*  No,'  said  Erica,  '  there  3'ou  are  wrong.  It  is  notorious 
that  my  father  teaches — conscientiously  teaches — much  that 
we  regard  as  error,  but  people  who  openly  accnse  him  of  evil- 
living  find  to  their  cost  in  the  law-courts  that  they  have  foully 
libelled  him.' 

She  flushed  even  now  at  the  thought  of  some  of  the  hateful 
and  wicked  accusations  of  the  past.  Then,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  she  continued  more  warmly, 

*  It  is  you  people  in  society  wlio  get  hold  of  some  misquoted 
story,  some. ridiculous  libel  long  ago  crushed  at  the  cost  of  the 
libeller, — it  is  you  who  do  untold  mischief  !  Only  last  summer 
I  remember  seeing  in  a  paper  the  truest  sentence  that  was  ever 
written  of  my  fiithcr,  and  it  was  this,  "  Probably  no  one  man 
has  ever  had  to  endure  such  gross  personal  insults,  such  wide- 
spread hostility,  such  perpetual  calumny."     Why  are  you  to 


A  FRIEND.  237 

judge  him  ]  Even  if  you  had  a  special  call  to  it,  how  could 
you  justly  judge  him  when  you  will  not  hear  him,  or  know 
him,  or  fairly  study  his  waitings,  or  question  his  friends  1  How 
can  you  know  anything  whatever  about  himi  Why,  if  he 
judged  you  and  your  party  as  you  judge  him,  you  would  be 
furious  !' 

'  My  dear,  you  speak  with  so  much  warmth,  if  you  would 
only  discuss  things  calmly  ! '  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith.  '  Remember 
what  George  Herbert  says — "  Calmness  is  a  great  advantage.'' 
You  bring  too  much  feeling  to  the  discussion.' 

'  How  can  I  help  feeling  when  you  are  slandering  my  ftither !' 
exclaimed  Erica.  '  I  have  tried  to  be  calm,  but  there  are  limits 
to  endurance  !  Would  you  like  Rose  to  sit  silently  while  my 
father  told  her  without  any  ground  that  you  were  a  wicked 
man  1 ' 

Wlien  matters  were  reversed  in  this  crude  way,  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith  winced  a  little. 

'  The  cases  are  different,'  he  suggested. 

'  Do  you  think  atheists  don't  love  their  children  as  much  as 
Christians'?'  cried  Erica,  half-choked  with  indignant  anger.  A 
vision  of  the  past,  of  her  dead  mother,  of  her  father's  never- 
failing  tenderness  brought  a  cloud  of  tears  to  her  eyes.  She 
brushed  them  away.  '  The  cases  are  different  as  you  say ;  but 
does  a  man  care  less  for  his  home,  when  outside  it  he  is  badgered 
and  insulted,  or  does  he  care  infinitely  more  1  Does  a  man 
care  less  for  his  child  because,  to  get  her  food,  he  has  had  to  go 
short  himself,  or  does  he  care  more  1  I  think  the  man  who 
has  had  to  toil  with  all  his  might  for  his  family  loves  it  better 
than  the  rich  man  can.  You  say  I  speak  with  too  much 
warmth,  too  much  feeling.  My  complaint  is  the  other  way — 
I  can't  find  words  strong  enough  to  give  you  any  idea  of  what 
my  father  has  always  been  to  me.  To  leave  him  would  be  to 
Avrong  my  conscience,  and  to  forsake  my  duty,  and  to  distrust 
God.     I  wiil  never  leave  him  !' 

With  that  she  got  up  and  left  the  room,  and  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith  leant  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh,  his  eyes  fixed 
absently  upon  a  portrait  of  Napoleon  above  his  mantel-piece, 
his  mind  more  completely  shaken  out  of  its  ordinary  grooves 
than  it  had  been  for  years.  He  was  a  narrow-minded  man, 
but  he  was  honest.  He  saw  that  he  had  judged  Raeburn  very 
unfairly.  But  perhaps  what  occvipied  his  thoughts  the  most 
was  the  question — '  Would  Rose  have  been  able  to  say  of  him 
all  that  Erica  had  said  of  her  father  1'  He  sighed  many  times, 
but  after  awhile  slid  back  into  the  old  habits  of  thought. 


238  AT  GARDEN E  MANOR. 

*  Erica  is  a  brave,  noble,  little  thing,'  he  said  to  himself, 
'  but  fiir  from  orthodox, — far  from  orthodox  1  Sociniau  teu- 
deucics.' 


CHAPTER     XXVII. 

AT  OAKDENK  MANOR. 

Ah !  to  how  many  faith  has  been 
No  evlLlence  of  thinps  unseen, 
But  a  dim  shadow  that  re-casts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts. 

For  others  a  diviner  creed 
Is  hving  in  the  life  they  lead. 
The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  imvement  of  the  street, 
And  all  theh  looks  and  words  rei^eat 
Old  Fuller's  saying  wise  and  sweet, 
Not  as  a  vulture,  but  a  dove, 
The  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

Talcs  of  a  Wayside  Inn.    Longfellow. 

During  the  interview  Erica  had  braced  herself  up  to  endure, 
but  when  it  was  over  her  strength  all  at  once  evaporated.  She 
dragged  herself  upstairs  somehow,  and  had  just  reached  her 
room,  when  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  met  her.  She  was  pre-occupicd 
with  her  own  anxieties,  or  Erica's  exhaustion  could  not  have 
escaped  her  notice. 

'I  am  really  quite  unhappy  about  Rose!'   she  exclaimed. 

*  "We  must  send  for  Dr.  L .     Her  cough  seems  so  much 

worse,  I  fear  it  will  turn  to  bronchitis.  Are  you  learned  in 
such  thing-si' 

'  I  helped  to  nurse  Tom  through  a  bad  attack  once,'  said 
Erica. 

'  Oh  !  then,  do  come  and  see  her,'  said  Mrs.  Fane-Smith. 

Erica  went  without  a  word.  She  would  not  have  liked 
I\Irs.  Fane-Smith's  fussing,  but  yet  the  sight  of  her  care  for 
Rose  made  her  feel  more  achingly  conscious  of  the  blank  in  her 
own  life — that  blank  which  notliing  could  ever  fill.  She  wanted 
licr  own  mother  so  terribly,  and  just  now  Mr.  Fane-Smith  had 
touched  the  old  wound  roughly. 

Rose  seemed  i-emarkably  cheerful,  and  not  ncai-ly  so  much 
invalided  as  her  mother  thought. 

'  Mamma  always  thinks  I  am  going  to  die  if  I'm  at  all  out 
of  sorts,'  she  remarked,  when  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  had  left  the 
room  to  write  to  the  doctor.     '  I  believe  you  want  doctoring 


AT  OAKDENB  MANOR.  239 

Diuch  more  than  I  do.  What  is  the  matter  1  You  arc  as  white 
as  a  sheet ! ' 

'  I  am  tired  and  rather  worried,  and  my  back  is  trouble- 
some/ said  Erica. 

'Then  you'll  just  lie  down  on  my  sofa,'  said  Rose,  per- 
emptorily.    '  If  you  don't  I  shall  get  out  of  bed  and  make  you.' 

Erica  did  not  require  much  compulsion,  for  every  inch  of 
her  seemed  to  have  a  separate  ache,  and  she  was  still  all  quiver- 
ii)g  and  tingling  with  the  indignant  anger  stirred  up  by  her 
interview  with  Mr.  Fane-Smith.  She  let  Rose  chatter  away, 
and  tried  hard  to  school  herself  into  calmness.  By-and-by 
her  efforts  were  rewarded  ;  she  not  only  grew  calm,  but  fell 
asleep,  and  slept  like  any  baby  till  the  gong  sounded  for 
luncheon. 

Luncheon  proved  a  very  silent  meal ;  it  was,  if  possible, 
more  trying  than  breakfast  had  been.  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  had 
heard  all  about  the  interview  from  her  husband,  and  they  were 
both  perplexed  and  disturbed.  Erica  felt  uncertain  of  her  foot- 
ing with  them,  and  could  only  wait  for  them  to  make  the  first 
move.     But  the  grim  silence  tickled  her  fancy. 

'  Really,'  she  thought  to  herself,  '  we  might  be  so  many 
horses  munching  away  at  mangers,  for  all  we  have  said  to  each 
other.' 

But,  in  spite  of  it,  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  make  con- 
versation. 

Later  on  she  went  for  a  drive  with  her  aunt ;  the  air  revived 
her,  and  she  began  to  feel  more  like  herself  again.  They  went 
out  into  the  country,  but  on  the  way  home  Mrs.  Fane-Smith 
stopped  at  one  of  the  shops  in  High  Street,  leaving  Erica  in  the 
carriage.  She  was  leaning  back  rcstfiilly,  watching  a  beautiful 
chestnut  horse  which  was  being  held  by  a  ragged  boy  at  the 
door  of  the  bank  just  opposite,  when  her  attention  was  suddenly 
ai'ouscd  by  an  ominous  howling  and  barking.  The  chestnut 
horse  began  to  kick,  and  the  boy  had  as  much  as  he  could  to 
hold  him.  Starting  forward.  Erica  saw  that  a  fox-terrier  had 
been  set  upon  by  another  and  larger  dog,  and  that  the  two 
were  having  a  desperate  fight.  The  fox-terrior  was  evidently 
fighting  against  fearful  odds,  for  he  was  an  old  dog,  and  not 
nearly  so  strong  as  his  antagonist ;  the  howls  and  barks  grew 
worse  and  worse ;  some  of  the  passengers  ran  ofl^  in  a  fright, 
others  watched  from  a  safe  distance,  but  not  one  interfered. 

Now  Erica  was  a  great  lover  of  animals,  and  a  passionate 
lover  of  justice.  Fm-ious  to  see  men  and  boys  looking  on  with- 
out attempting  to  stop  the  mischief,  she  sprang  out  of  the 


240  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR. 

carriage,  and,  rushing  up  to  the  combatants,  belaboured  the 
big  dog  with  lier  parasol.  It  had  a  strong  stick,  but  she  hit  so 
vehemently  that  it  splintered  all  to  bits,  and  still  the  dog  would 
not  leave  its  victim.  Then,  in  her  desperation,  she  hit  on  the 
right  remedy ;  with  great  difficulty  she  managed  to  grasp  him 
by  the  thi'oat,  and,  using  all  her  force,  so  nearly  suffocated  him 
that  he  was  obliged  to  loosen  his  hold.  At  that  moment,  too, 
a  strong  man  rushed  forward  and  dealt  him  such  a  blow 
that  he  bounded  off  with  a  yell  of  pain,  and  ran  howling  down 
the  street.  Erica  bent  over  the  fox-teiTier  then  ;  the  big  dog 
had  mangled  it  frightfully,  it  was  covered  with  blood,  and 
moaned  piteously. 

'  Waif !  my  poor  Waif ! '  exclaimed  a  voice  which  she  seemed 
to  know.     '  Has  that  brate  killed  you  ? ' 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Donovan  Farrant ;  he  recognised 
her,  but  they  were  both  too  much  absorbed  in  the  poor  dog's 
condition  to  think  of  any  ordinary  greeting. 

'  Where  will  you  take  him  1 '  asked  Erica. 

Donovan  stooped  down  to  examine  poor  Waifs  injuries. 

'  I  fear  there  is  little  to  be  done,'  he  said.  '  But  we  might 
take  him  across  to  the  chemist's  opposite.  Will  you  hold  my 
whip  for  mc  1 ' 

She  took  it,  and  with  infinite  skill  and  tenderness  Donovan 
lifted  the  fox-terrier,  while  Erica  hurried  on  in  front  to  tell  the 
chemist.  They  took  Waif  into  a  little  back  room,  and  did  all 
they  could  for  him ;  but  the  chemist  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*  Better  kill  the  poor  brute  at  once.  Mi'.  Farrant,'  he  said, 
blandly. 

Donovan  looked  up  with  a  strange  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

'  Not  for  the  world  ! '  he  exclaimed,  with  a  touch  of  indig- 
nation in  his  tone. 

And  after  that  he  only  spoke  to  Erica,  who,  seeing  that  the 
chemist  had  annoyed  him,  undertook  all  the  fetching  and 
carrying,  never  once  shrinking,  though  the  siglit  was  a  horrible 
one.  At  length  the  footman  brought  word  that  Mrs.  Fane- 
Smith  was  waiting,  and  she  was  obliged  to  go,  reluctantly 
enough. 

'  You'll  let  me  know  how  he  gets  on  1 '  she  said. 

'  Yes,  indeed,'  he  replied,  not  thanking  her  directly  for  her 
help,  but  somehow  sending  her  away  with  the  conscioxisness 
that  they  had  passed  the  bounds  of  mere  acquaintanceship,  and 
were  friends  for  life. 

She  found  that  her  aunt  had  been  waylaid  by  Mr.  Cuthbcrt. 

*  If  I  were  the  owner  of  the  dog,    I  should   have  up  oui 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  241 

honourable  member  for  assault.  I  believe  Miss  Raeburn  broke 
her  umbrella  over  the  poor  thing,' 

Erica  was  just  in  time  to  hear  this. 

'  Were  you  watching  it  V  she  exclaimed.  '  And  you  did 
nothing  to  help  the  fox-terrier?' 

'  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  champion  every  fighting  cur  who  is 
getting  the  worst  of  it,'  said  Mr.  Cuthbert.  'What  has  become 
of  Mr.  Tarrant's  favourite?  I  suppose  he  is  fussing  over  it 
instead  of  studying  the  affairs  of  the  nation.' 

'  I  am  afraid  the  dog  is  dying,'  said  Erica, 

A  curious  change  passed  over  Mr.  Cuthbcrt's  face ;  he 
looked  a  little  shocked,  and  turned  away  somcAvhat  hastily. 

'  Come,'  thought  Erica  to  herself,  '  I  am  glad  to  have  dis- 
covered a  grain  of  good  in  you.' 

The  next  day  was  Sunday;  it  passed  by  very  quietly.  But  on 
the  Monday,  when  Erica  opened  the  Daily  Review,  there  was  her 
'Society'  article  staring  her  in  the  face.  It  was  clever  and 
eminently  readable,  but  it  was  bitterly  sarcastic ;  she  could 
not  endure  it.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  written  what 
was  positively  bad,  calculated  to  mislead  and  to  awaken  bitter- 
ness, not  in  the  least  likely  to  mend  matters.  The  fact  was 
she  had  written  it  in  a  moment  of  passion  and  against  her 
conscience,  and  she  regretted  it  now  with  far  more  compunction 
than  she  felt  for  anything  she  had  written  in  former  times  in 
the  Idol-Breaher.  Then,  though  indirectly  and  sometimes 
directly  attacking  Christianity,  she  had  written  conscientiously, 
now  for  the  first  time  she  felt  that  she  had  dishonoured  her 
pen.     She  went  down  into  the  very  deepest  depths. 

The  mid-day  post  brought  her  a  letter  from  her  stiff  old 
editor,  who  understood  her  better,  and  thought  more  of  her 
than  she  dreamed.  It  informed  her  that  another  member 
of  the  staff  had  returned  from  his  holiday,  and  if  she  pleased 
she  could  be  exempted  from  WTiting  for  a  fortnight.  As  usual 
Mr.  Bircham  '  begged  to  remain  hers  faithfully.' 

She  hardly  knew  whether  to  regard  this  as  a  relief  or  as  a 
punishment.  With  a  sigh  she  opened  a  second  letter ;  it  was 
from  Charles  Osmond,  in  reply  to  a  despairing  note  which  she 
had  sent  off  just  before  her  Saturday  interview  with  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith. 

It  was  one  of  his  short,  characteristic  letters. 

'  Dear  Erica, 

' "  It  all  comes  in  the  day's  work,"  as  the  man  said 
when  the  lion  ate  him  !     You  should  have  a  letter,  but  I'm  up 


242  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR. 

to  tlic  eyes  in  parish  matters.  All  I  can  say  is — pray  for  that 
charity  Avhich  covers  the  multitude  of  sins,  and  then  I  think 
youll  find  the  Grc^-shot  folk  become  more  bearable.  So  you 
have  met  Donovan  at  last.  I  am  right  glad  !  Your  father 
and  I  had  a  long  walk  together  yesterday ;  he  seems  very  well. 

'  Yours  ever, 

'  C.  0.' 

This  made  her  smile,  and  she  opened  a  third  letter  -which 
ran  as  folloA\  s  : — 

'  My  dear  Miss  Raeburn, 

'I  should  have  called  on  you  last  Saturday,  but 
was  not  Avell  enough  to  come  in  to  Greyshot.  My  husband  told 
me  all  about  your  help  and  your  kindness  to  poor  Waif.  I 
know  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  he  is  going  on  well ;  he  is 
much  more  to  us  all  than  an  ordinary  favoui-itc,  some  day  you 
shall  hear  his  story.  I  am  writing  now  to  ask,  sans  ctremonie, 
if  you  W' ill  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  us.  It  will  be  a 
great  pleasure  to  us  if  you  will  say  yes.  My  husband  will  be 
in  Greyshot  on  Monday  afternoon,  and  will  call  for  your  answer; 
please  come  if  you  can. 

'  Yours  vciy  sincerely, 

'  Gladys  Fauram.' 

Erica  showed  this  letter  to  her  aunt,  and  of  course  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  her  going ;  indeed,  Mrs.  Fane-Smith 
was  really  rather  relieved,  for  she  tliought  a  few  days'  absence 
might  make  things  more  comfortable  for  Erica,  and,  besides, 
Hose's  illness  made  the  days  dull  for  her. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  when  Donovan  Farrant  arrived. 
Erica  felt  as  though  she  were  meeting  an  old  friend  when  she 
went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  found  him  standing  on  the 
hearthrug. 

'You  have  had  my  wife's  note]'  he  asked,  taking  her  hanil. 

'Yes,'  she  replied. 

'  And  you  will  come '?' 

'  If  you  will  have  me.' 

'  That's  right;  we  had  set  our  heai'ts  on  it.  You  are  looking 
very  tired.     I  hope  Saturday  did  not  upset  you  V 

'No,'  said  Erica.  'But  tlierc  have  been  a  good  many 
worries,  and  I  have  not  yet  learnt  the  art  of  taking  life  quietly.' 

'  You  arc  overdone,  you  want  a  rest,'  said  Donovan,  Avhose 
keen  and  practised  observation  had  at  once  noticed  her  delicate 
■physique  and  peculiar  temperament.     '  You  are  a  poet,  you  see. 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  243 

and,  as  a  wise  man  once  remarked,  "  The  poetic  temperament 
is  one  of  singular  irritability  of  nerve."  ' 

Erica  laughed. 

'  I  am  no  poet ! ' 

'  Not  a  Avriter  of  verses,  but  a  poet  in  the  sense  of  a  maker, 
an  artist.  As  a  reader  of  the  Daily  Revieiv,  you  must  allow  me 
to  judge.  Brian  once  showed  me  one  of  your  articles,  and  I 
always  recognise  them  now  by  the  style.' 

'  I  don't  deserve  the  name  of  artist  one  bit,'  said  Erica, 
colouring.  '  I  wovild  give  all  I  have  to  destroy  my  article  of 
to-day.  You  have  not  seen  that,  or  you  would  not  have  given 
me  such  a  name.' 

'  Yes,  I  have  seen  it,  I  read  it  this  morning  at  breakfast, 
and  made  up  my  mind  that  you  wrote  it  on  Friday  evening, 
after  Lady  Caroline's  dinner.  I  can  understand  that  you  hate 
the  thing  now.  One  gets  a  sharp  lesson  every  now  and  then, 
and  it  lasts  one  a  lifetime.' 

Erica  sighed.     He  resumed. 

'  Well !  are  you  coming  to  Oakdene  with  me  1 ' 

'  Did  you  mean  now — at  caice — to-day  1 ' 

'If  you  will' 

'  Oh,  I  should  so  like  to  ! '  she  cried.  *  But  will  Mrs. 
Farrant  be  expecting  me  % ' 

'  She  will  be  hoping  for  yon,  and  that  is  better.' 

Erica  was  noted  for  the  speed  with  which  she  could  pack  a 
portmanteau,  and  it  could  not  have  been  more  than  ten' minutes 
before  she  was  ready.  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  wished  her  good-bye 
with  a  sort  of  affectionate  relief;  then  Donovan  helped  her 
into  the  pony-carriage,  and  drove  briskly  off  through  the 
Greyshot  sti'eets. 

'  That  is  the  place  where  I  first  heard  your  father,'  he  said, 
indicating  with  his  whip  the  Town  Hall.  '  It  must  be  sixteen 
years  ago ;  I  was  quite  a  young  fellow.' 

'Sixteen  years  !  Did  you  hear  him  so  long  ago  as  that]' 
said  Erica,  thoughtfully.  '  Why,  that  must  have  been  about 
the  time  of  the  great  Stockborough  trial.' 

'  It  was ;  I  remember  reference  being  made  to  it,  and  how 
it  stirred  me  up  to  think  of  Mr,  Raebum's  gallant  defence  of 
freedom,  and  all  that  it  was  costing  him.  Hoav  well  I  remember, 
too,  riding  home  that  night  along  this  very  road,  with  the 
thoughts  of  the  good  of  the  race,  the  love  of  humanity,  touched 
into  life  for  the  first  time.  When  a  selfish  cynic  first  catches  a 
glimpse  of  an  honest  man  toiling  for  what  he  believes  the  good 
of  humanity,  it  is  a  wonderful  moment  for  him  !     Mr.  Raeburn 


244       •  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR 

■was  about  the  only  man  living  that  I  believed  in.  You  can 
understand  that  I  owe  him  an  immense  debt  of  gratitude.' 

'  That  is  what  you  referred  to  in  the  House  last  year  ! '  said 
Erica.  'How  cuiiously  lives  are  linked  together!  "Words 
spoken  by  my  father  years  ago  set  thoughts  working  in  you — 
you  make  a  speech  and  refer  to  them.  I  read  a  report  of  your 
speech  in  a  time  of  chaotic  wretchedness,  and  it  comes  like  an 
answer  to  a  prayer !' 

*  Another  bond  between  us,'  said  Donovan. 

After  that  they  wei-e  silent ;  they  had  left  the  high  road 
and  Avere  driving  along  winding  country  lanes,  catching  glimpses 
every  now  and  then  of  golden  coi-n-fields  still  unreapcd,  or  of 
fields  just  beginning  to  be  dotted  with  sheaves,  where  the  men 
Avere  at  work.  It  was  a  late  harvest  that  year,  but  a  good  one. 
Presently  they  passed  the  tiny  little  village  church  which 
nestled  under  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  then  came  a  steep  ascent, 
which  made  Donovan  spring  out  of  the  pony-chaise.  Erica's 
words  had  awakened  a  long  train  of  thoiight,  had  can-ied  him 
back  to  the  far  past,  and  had  brought  him  fresh  proof  of  that 
wonderful  unity  of  Nature  which,  though  often  little  dreamed 
of,  binds  man  to  man.  He  gave  the  ponies  a  rest  half-way  up 
the  hill,  and,  stretching  up  into  tlie  high  hedge,  gathered  a 
bcautifvd  spray  of  red-berried  briony  for  Erica. 

'  Do  you  remember  that  grand  thought  which  Shakspere 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  Henry  V. — 

"  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil." 

'Tis  wonderful  to  look  back  in  life  and  trace  it  out.' 

He  spoke  rather  abruptlj^,  but  Erica's  thoughts  had  been 
following  much  the  same  bent,  and  she  understood  him. 

'  Trust  is  easy  on  such  a  day  as  this  and  in  such  a  place,' 
she  said,  looking  down  to  the  beautiful  valley  and  up  to  tlio 
gi-een,  encircling  hills. 

Donovan  smiled,  and  touched-up  the  ponies. 

It  seemed  to  Erica  that  they  had  turned  tlieir  backs  on 
l)igotry,  and  annoyance,  and  care  of  every  description,  and 
were  driving  right  into  a  land  of  rest.  Presently  they  turned  in 
at  some  iron  gates,  and  drove  down  a  long  approach,  bordered 
with  fir-trees.  At  the  end  of  this  stood  the  manor,  a  solid, 
comfortable,  Avell-built  country-house,  its  rather  plain  exterior 
veiled  witli  ivy  and  creepers.  Donovan  led  her  into  the  hall, 
Avhere  stately  old  high-backed  chairs  and  a  suit  or  two  of  old 
armour  were  intermixed  with  modern  appliances,  fishing  tackle, 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  245 

ft  lawn-tcmiis  box,  and  a  sprinkling  of  toys,  which  indicated 
that  there  were  children  in  the  house. 

This  fact  ■was  speedily  indicated  in  another  way,  for  there 
came  a  rush  and  a  scamper  overhead,  and  a  boy  of  five  or  six 
years  old  ran  down  the  broad  oak  staircase, 

'Oh,  father!  may  I  ride  round  to  the  stables  on  Speedwell?' 
he  cried,  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  attract  his  father's  attention 
away  from  the  servant  and  the  portmanteau ;  then,  catching 
sight  of  Erica,  he  checked  himself,  and  held  out  his  hand  with 
a  sort  of  shy  coiirtesy.  He  was  exactly  what  Donovan  must 
have  been  as  a  child,  as  far  as  looks  went. 

'To  the  stables,  Ealphl'  replied  his  father,  looking  round. 
'Yes,  if  you  like.  Put  on  your  hat  though.  Where's  your  motherl' 

'  In  the  garden,  with  Mr.  Cunningham ;  he  came  a  few 
minutes  ago ;  and  he's  got  such  a  horse,  father !  a  real  beauty — 
just  like  cocoa.' 

'  A  roan,'  said  Donovan,  laughing ;  then,  as  Ralph  dis- 
appeared through  the  open  door,  he  turned  to  the  servant. 

'  Is  it  j\Ir.  Cunningham  of  Blachingbury  1 ' 

'  No,  sir ;  Mr.  Leslie  Cunningham.' 

Erica  listened,  not  without  interest,  for  she  knew  that 
Leslie  Cunningham  was  the  recently-elected  member  for  East 
^Mountshire,  and  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  JMichael  Cunningham. 

'  We  must  come  and  find  them,'  said  Donovan ;  and 
together  they  went  out  into  the  garden. 

Here,  on  one  of  the  broad,  grassy  terraces,  under  the  shade 
of  a  copper-beech,  was  afternoon  tea,  on  a  wicker  table.  Gladys 
was  talking  to  Mr.  Cunningham,  but  catching  sight  of  her 
husband  and  Erica  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace,  she  hurried 
forward  to  greet  them. 

'This  is  delightful!'  she  exclaimed.  *I  hoped  that  Donovan 
might  unceremoniously  carry  you  off  to-day,  but  hardly  dared 
to  expect  it.     You  are  just  in  time  for  tea.' 

'  Your  arrival  has  caused  quite  a  sensation  in  the  nursery,' 
Baid  Donovan  to  Leslie  Cunningham.  'My  small  boy  is  in 
raptures  over  your  horse — "ju^st  like  cocoa  !"' 

Leslie  gave  rather  an  absent  laugh.  He  was  watching 
Erica,  who  was  still  at  a  little  distance  talking  to  Gladys. 

'May  I  be  introduced  to  your  gviesf?'  he  said. 

'Certainly,'  said  Donovan.  'She  is  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Baeburn.' 

Leslie  started. 

'  Indeed !  I  have  heard  aboiit  her  from  old  Bircham,  the 
editor.     He  can't  say  enough  of  her.' 


246  AT  OAKDBNE  MANOR. 

Apparently  Leslie  Cunningham  could  not  look  enougli  at 
licr. 

Donovan,  thinking  of  Brian,  ^vas  perhaps  a  little  vexed  at 
the  meeting.  However,  putting  himself  into  his  guest's  position, 
he  felt  that  the  admiration  was  but  natural,  and  as  to  Brian — 
if  he  chose  to  lose  his  heart  to  such  a  lovely  girl,  he  must  expect 
to  have  many  rivals. 

Eiica's  first  thought,  as  she  glanced  at  Leslie  Cunningham, 
was  one  of  disappointment.  He  was  not  the  least  like  his 
father.  However,  by  degrees  she  began  to  like  him  for  his  own 
sake.  He  could  not  have  been  more  than  five-and-twenty,  and 
looked  even  younger ;  for  he  was  fair-complexioned  and  clean- 
shaven. His  thick,  flaxen  hair,  and  rather  pallid  face  were 
decidedly  wanting  in  colour,  but  were  relieved  by  very  dark- 
grey  eyes.  His  features  were  well  cut  and  regular,  and  the 
face  was  altogether  a  clever  as  well  as  au  attractive  one. 

Erica  felt  as  if  she  had  got  into  a  very  delicious  new  world. 
The  novelty  of  a  meal  al  fresco,  the  lovely  view,  the  beautifully 
laid-out  grounds  were  charming  externals ;  and  then  thci'e  were 
the  deeper  enjoyments — the  loveability  of  her  host  and  hostess; 
the  delightful  atmosphere  of  broad-hearted  sympathy  in  which 
they  seemed  to  live  and  move,  and,  above  all,  the  restfulness, 
the  freedom  of  not  living  in  momentary  expectation  of  being 
i-ubbed  the  WTong  way  by  vexing  conversation  on  religious,  or 
political,  or  personal  topics.  It  was  like  a  beautiful  dream — 
quite  unlike  any  part  of  real,  waking  existence  that  she  had 
ever  before  known.  The  conversation  Avas  bright  and  lively. 
They  talked  because  they  had  something  to  say,  and  wished  to 
say  it,  and  the  artificial  clement  so  prevalent  in  society  talk 
was  entirely  absent. 

Presently  Ralph  came  out  of  the  house,  leading  a  fiiiry-likc 
little  girl  of  four  years  old. 

'  Here  come  the  children,'  said  Gladys.  '  The  hour  before 
dinner  is  their  special  time.   You  have  not  seen  Dolly,  have  jowV 

'Dolly  !'  The  name  awoke  some  I'ccollection  of  the  past  in 
Erica,  and,  as  she  kissed  the  little  girl,  she  looked  at  her  closely. 
Yes,  it  was  the  same  fascinating  little  baby  face,  with  its  soft, 
pink  cheeks  and  little  pointed  chin,  its  innocent,  blue-grey  eyes, 
its  tiny,  sweet-tempered  mouth.  The  sunny  brown  hair  was 
longer,  and  Dolly  was  an  inch  or  two  taller,  Init  she  was  un- 
doubtedly the  same. 

'Now  I  know  why  I  always  felt  that  I  knew  your  face!' 
exclaimed  Erica,  turning  to  Donovan.  '  Was  not  Dolly  lost  at 
Codrington  last  yearl' 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  247 

'  On  the  beach,'  replied  Donpvan.  '  Yes  !  Why,  could  it 
have  been  you  who  brought  her  back  1  Of  course  it  was  !  now 
it  all  comes  back  to  me  !  I  had  exactly  the  same  feeling  about 
knowing  your  face  the  other  evening  at  Lady  Caroline's,  but 
put  it  down  to  your  likeness  to  Mr,  Raeburn.  There  is  another 
bond  between  us  !' 

They  both  laughed.     Donovan  took  Dolly  upon  his  knee. 

'  Do  you  remember,  Dolly,  when  you  were  lost  ou  the  beach 
once  V 

'  Yes,'  said  Dolly,  promptly,  '  I  died.' 

*  Who  found  you  ]' 

'  Farver,'  said  Dolly. 

'  Who  brought  you  to  father  V 

Dolly  searched  her  memory. 

'  An  old  gentleman  gave  Dolly  sweets  !' 

*  ^ly  father,'  said  Erica,  smiling. 

'  And  who  helped  you  up  the  beach  V  asked  Gladys. 

« A  plitty  lady  did,'  said  Dolly. 

'  Was  it  this  lady,  do  you  think  ] '  said  Donovan,  indicating 
Erica. 

Dolly  trotted  round  with  her  dear  little  laughing  face  to 
make  the  scinitiny. 

*  I  fink  vis  one  is  plittier,'  she  announced.  Whereupon 
every  one  began  to  laugh. 

'  The  most  charming  compliment  I  ever  heard  !'  said  Leslia 
Cunningham.     '  Dolly  ought  to  be  patted  on  the  back.' 

Erica  smiled  and  coloured ;  but,  as  she  looked  again  at 
Donovan  and  little  Dolly,  her  thoughts  wandered  away  to  that 
June  day  in  the  museum  when  they  had  been  the  parable  which 
shadowed  forth  to  her  such  a  wonderful  reality.  Truly,  there 
were  links  innumerable  between  her  and  Donovan. 

Leslie  Cunningham  seemed  as  if  he  intended  to  stay  for 
ever ;  however,  every  one  was  quite  content  to  sit  out  on  the 
lawn  talking  and  watching  the  children  at  their  play.  It  was 
one  of  those  still,  soft  September  evenings,  when  one  is  glad 
of  any  excuse  to  keep  out  of  doors. 

At  last  the  dressing-bell  rang,  and  Leslie  took  out  his  watch 
with  an  air  of  surprise. 

. '  The  afternoon  has  flown  !'  he  exclaimed,  *  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  late.  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  by-the-by,  whether  I  could 
see  the  coffee-tavern  at  Greyshot.  We  are  going  to  start  one 
down  at  our  place,  and  I  want  to  see  one  or  two  well-managed 
ones  first.  Whereabouts  is  it  ?  I  think  I'll  ride  on  now,  and 
have  a  look  at  it.* 


248  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR. 

'  Dine  with  us  first,'  said  Donovan,  *  and  I'll  ride  over  with 
you  between  eight  and  nine,  that  is  the  best  time  for  seeing  it 
in  full  swing.' 

So  Leslie  Cunningham  stayed  to  dinner,  and  talked  a  great 
deal  about  temperance  work,  but  did  not  succeed  in  blinding 
his  host,  who  knew  well  enough  that  Erica  had  been  the  real 
cause  of  his  desire  to  go  over  to  Grcyshot. 

Temperance,  however,  proved  a  fortunate  subject,  for  it  was, 
of  course,  one  in  which  she  was  deeply  interested,  all  the  more 
so  now  that  it  formed  one  of  the  strongest  bonds  remaining 
between  herself  and  her  father's  followers.  A  large  number  of 
the  Raeburnites  were  either  teetotallers  or  very  strong  temper- 
ance advocates,  and  Erica,  who  was  constantly  out  and  about 
in  the  poorer  parts  of  London,  had  realised  forcibly  the  terrible 
national  evil,  and  was  an  enthusiastic  temperance  Avorker. 

Donovan,  perhaps  out  of  malice  prepense,  administered  a 
good  many  dry  details  about  the  management  of  coffee-taverns, 
personal  supervision,  Etzensberger's  machines,  the  necessity  of  a 
good  site  and  attractive  building,  &c.  &c.  Erica  only  wished 
that  Tom  could  have  been  there,  he  Avould  have  been  so 
thoroughly  in  his  element.  By-and-by  the  conversation  drifted 
away  to  other  matters.  And  as  Leslie  Cunningham  was  a  good 
and  very  amusing  talkei',  and  Gladys  the  perfection  of  a  hostess, 
the  dinner  proved  very  lively,  an  extraordinary  contrast  to  the 
dreaiy,  vapid  table-talk  to  which  Erica  had  lately  been  ac- 
customed. After  the  ladies  had  left  the  room,  Donovan,  rather 
to  his  amusement,  found  the  talk  veering  round  to  Luke 
Raebiuii.  Presently,  Leslie  Cunningham  hazarded  a  direct 
question  about  Erica  in  a  would-be  indifferent  tone.  In  reply, 
Donovan  told  him  briefly  and  without  comment  what  he  knew 
of  her  history,  keeping  on  the  sui'face  of  things  and  speaking 
always  with  a  sort  of  carefid  restraint.  He  was  never  very  fond 
of  discussing  people,  and  perhaps  in  this  case  the  realisation  of 
the  thousand  objections  to  any  serious  outcome  of  Leslie's 
sudden  admiration  strengthened  his  reserve.  However,  fate  was 
apparently  kinder  though  perhaps  really  more  cruel  than  the 
host,  for  ]3onovan  Avas  summoned  into  the  library  to  interview 
an  aggrieved  constituent,  and  Leslie  finding  his  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  was  only  too  delighted  to  meet  Gladys  going 
upstairs  to  sec  her  children. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  drawing-room,  but  the  curtains 
were  not  drawn,  and  beside  tlic  open  window  he  saw  a  slim, 
white-robed  figure.  Erica  was  looking  out  into  the  gathering 
darkness.     He  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  beside  her,  his  heart 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  249 

beating  quickly,  all  the  more  because  she  did  not  move  or  take 
any  notice  of  his  presence.  It  ^Yas  unconventional,  but  perhaps 
because  he  was  so  weary  of  the  ordinary  young  ladies  who  in- 
variably smiled  and  fluttered  the  moment  he  approached  them, 
and  w'ere  so  perfectly  ready  to  make  much  of  him,  this  uncon- 
ventionality  attracted  him.  He  watched  her  for  a  minute  in 
silence.  She  was  very  happy,  and  was  looking  her  loveliest. 
Presently  she  turned. 

'  I  think  it  is  the  stillness  which  is  so  wonderful  ! '  she 
exclaimed. 

It  was  spoken  with  the  frankness  of  a  child,  with  the 
spontaneous  confidence  of  the  pure  child-nature,  which  in- 
stinctively recognises  all  the  loveable  and  trustable.  The  clear, 
golden  eyes  looked  right  into  his  for  a  foment.  A  strange 
reverence  awoke  within  him.  He  had  seen  more  beautiful  eyes 
before,  but  none  so  entirely  wanting  in  that  unreality  of  ex- 
pression arising  from  the  wish  to  produce  an  effect,  none  so 
beautifully  sincere. 

'  The  country  stillness,  you  mean  V  he  replied. 

*  Yes  ;  it  is  rest  in  itself  1  I  have  never  stayed  in  the  country 
before.' 

'  Is  it  possible  ! '  he  exclaimed. 

He  had  often  languidly  discussed  the  comparative  advantages 
of  Miirren  and  Zcrmatt  with  girls  who  took  a  yearly  tour  abroad 
as  naturally  as  their  dinner,  but  to  talk  to  one  who  had  spent 
her  whole  life  in  towns,  who  could  enjoy  a  country  evening  so 
absolutely  and  unaffectedly,  was  a  strange  and  delightful 
novelty. 

'  You  are  one  of  those  who  can  really  enjoy,'  he  said.  *  You 
are  not  blasee — you  are  one  of  the  hapj^y  mortals  who  keep  the 
faculty  of  enjoyment  as  strongly  all  through  life  as  in  childhood.' 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  can  enjoy,'  said  Erica.  '  But  I  suppose  we 
pay  for  our  extra  faculty  of  enjoyment.' 

'  You  mean  by  being  more  sensitive  to  pain  ? ' 

'  Yes,  though  that  sounds  rather  like  Dickens'  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  when  she  thought  she  felt  smoky  chimneys  more 
than  other  people.' 

He  kuighed. 

'  How  I  wish  you  could  timi  over  your  work  to  me,  and  go 
to  Switzerland  to-morrow  in  my  place  !  Only  I  should  wish  to 
bo  there,  too,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  you  enjoy  it.' 

'  Do  you  go  to-morrow  ? ' 

•  Yes,  with  my  father,' 

*Ah  !  how  delightful !     I  confess  I  do  envy  you  a  little.     I 


250  AT  OAKDENE  MANOR. 

do  long  to  see  snow  mountains.  Always  living  in  London 
makes  one ' 

He  inten-uptcd  licr  witli  a  sort  of  exclamation  of  horror. 

'  Oh  !  don't  abuse  Loudon  ! '  she  said,  laughing.  *  If  one 
must  live  all  the  year  round  in  one  place,  I  would  rather  be 
there  than  anywhere.  When  I  hoar  people  abusing  it,  I  always 
think  they  don't  know  how  to  use  their  eyes.  What  can  be 
more  lovely,  for  iustance,  than  the  view  from  Greenwich  Park 
by  the  observatory  ?  Don't  you  know  that  beautiful  clump  of 
Scotch  firs  in  the  foreground,  and  then  the  glimpse  of  the  river 
through  the  trees  1  And  then  thci-e  is  that  lovely  part  by 
Queen  Elizabeth's  oak.  The  view  in  Hyde  Park,  too,  over  the 
Serpentine,  how  exquisite  that  is  on  a  summer  afternoon,  with 
the  Westminster  towers  standing  up  in  a  golden  haze.  Or 
Kensington  Gardens  in  the  autumn,  when  the  leaves  are  turning, 
and  there  is  blue  mist  in  the  background  against  the  dark  tree 
trunks.     I  think  I  love  every  inch  of  London  ! ' 

Leslie  Cunningham  would  have  listened  to  the  pi'aises  of  the 
Black  Country,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  hearing  her  voice. 

'  Well,  as  far  as  England  goes,  you  are  in  the  right  place  for 
scenery  now  ;  I  know  few  lovelier  parts  than  this.' 

'  What  are  those  lights  on  the  lower  terrace  ] '  asked  Erica, 
suddenly. 

'  Glow-worms.  Have  you  never  seen  them  1  Come  and 
look  at  them  nearer.' 

'  Oh,  I  should  like  to  ! '  she  said,  with  the  charming  en- 
thusiasm and  eagerness  which  delighted  him  so  much. 

To  guide  her  down  the  steps  in  the  dusky  garden,  to  feel 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  to  hear  her  fresh,  naive  remarks,  and  then 
to  recall  what  Donovan  Farrant  had  just  told  him  aboiit  her 
strange,  sad  story,  all  seemed  to  draw  him  on  irresistibly.  Ho 
had  had  three  or  four  tolerably  serious  flirtations,  but  now  he 
knew  that  he  had  never  before  really  loved. 

Erica  Mas  delighted  with  the  glow-worms,  and  delighted 
with  the  dewy  fragrance  of  the  garden,  and  delighted  witla  the 
soft,  balmy  stillness  of  the  night.  She  was  one  of  those  who 
revel  in  Nature,  and  all  that  she  said  was  evidently  the  overflow 
of  a  rapturous  happiness,  curiously  contrasting  with  the  ordinary 
set  remarks  of  admiration,  or  falsely  sentimental  outbursts  too 
much  in  vogue.  But  Leslie  Cunningham  found  that  the  child- 
likeness  was  not  only  in  manner,  but  that  Erica  had  no  idea  of 
flirting ;  she  Avas  bright,  and  merry,  and  talkative,  but  she  had 
no  thought,  no  desire  of  attracting  his  attention.  She  had 
actually  and  literally  come  out  into  tiic  garden  to  see  the  glow- 


AT  OAKDENE  MANOR.  251 

woi-ms,  not  to  monopolise  the  mnch-nm-aftcr  young  M.P.,  and 
as  soon  as  she  had  seen  them  she  said  she  felt  cold,  and  sug- 
gested going  back  again. 

He  "Has  disappointed,  but  the  words  were  so  perfectly 
sincere,  so  free  from  suspicion  of  mere  conventionality,  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return.  Half-amused,  half-piqued, 
but  wholly  in  love,  he  speedily  forgot  himself  in  real  anxiety. 

*I  hope  you  haven't  taken  cold,'  he  said,  with  great 
solicitude. 

'Oh,  no,'  said  Erica;  'but  I  want  to  be  careful,  for  the 
night-school  work  will  be  beginning  soon,  and  I  must  go  home 
fresh  for  that.' 

Something  in  her  words  broke  the  spell  of  perfect  happiness 
which  had  hitherto  held  him.  Was  it  the  mention  of  her 
everyday  life,  with  its  surroundings  unknown  to  him  1  or 
was  it  some  faint  perception  that  in  the  world  of  duty  to  which 
she  referred  their  paths  could  not  I'ightly  converge  1  A  cold 
chill  crept  over  him. 

'  You  were  quite  right,'  he  said,  with  an  involuntary  shiver. 
*  It  is  decidedly  cold  out  here  ;  the  mist  rises  from  the  river,  I 
expect,  or  else  your  reference  to  the  working-day  world  has  re- 
called me  from  fairyland.  You  should  not  speak  of  work  iu 
such  a  place  as  this — it  is  incongruous.' 

She  smiled. 

'  Ernst  ist  das  leben,^  she  replied,  quietly.  '  One  can't  forget 
that  even  at  such  a  time  as  this,  and  in  such  a  place.' 

'  How  is  it  that  some  never  forget  that  for  a  moment,  while 
others  never  remember  it  at  all  ] '  he  said,  musingly. 

'  Some  of  us  have  no  excuse  for  ever  forgetting,'  she  answered 
— 'hardly  a  chance  either.' 

And  though  the  words  were  vague,  they  shadowed  out  to 
him  much  of  her  life — a  life  never  free  from  sorrow,  burdened 
with  constant  care  and  anxiety,  and  ever  confronted  by  some  of 
the  most  perplexing  world-problems.  A  longing  to  shield,  and 
protect,  and  comfort  her  rose  in  his  heart,  yet  all  the  time  he 
instinctively  knew  that  hers  was  the  stronger  nature. 

It  seemed  that  the  seriousness  of  life  was  to  be  borne-in 
upon  them  specially  that  evening,  for,  returning  to  the  drawing- 
room,  they  found  Donovan  released  from  his  interview,  and  re- 
lating with  some  indignation  the  pitiable  story  he  had  just 
heard.  It  only  reached  Leslie  Cunningham  in  fragments,  how- 
ever— overcrowding,  children  sleeping  six  in  a  bed,  two  of  them 
with  scarlet  fever,  no  fever  hospital,  no  accommodation  for  them, 
an  inspector,  medical  ofticcr,  the  board — how  drearily  dry  all 


252  THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEICS. 

the  details  seemed  to  liim  i  He  could  do  nothing  but  watch 
Erica's  eager  face,  with  its  ever-vailing  play  of  expression.  He 
hardly  knew  whether  to  be  angry  witli  Donovan  Farrant  for 
alluding  to  matters  which  brought  a  look  of  sadness  to  her  eyes, 
or  to  thank  him  for  the  story  which  made  her  face  light  up  with 
indignation,  and  look,  if  possible,  more  beautiful  than  before. 

'  Don't  offer  to  put  up  a  fever  shanty  on  the  lawn,'  said 
Gladys,  when  her  husband  paused. 

'  I  wish  we  had  an  empty  cottage  where  we  could  put  them,' 
said  Donovan ;  '  but  I  am  afraid  all  I  can  do  is  to  bring  pressure 
to  bear  upon  the  authorities.  We'll  ride  over  together,  Cun- 
ningham, and  Jack  Trevcthan,  our  manager,  shall  show  you  the 
tavern,  while  I  rout  out  this  medical  officer.' 

They  had  had  tea;  there  was  no  longer  any  excuse  for 
delaying.  Leslie,  with  an  outward  smile  and  an  inward  sigii, 
turned  to  take  leave  of  Erica.  She  was  bending  over  a  basket  iu 
which  was  curled  up  the  invalid  fox-terrier.  For  a  moment  she 
left  off  stroking  the  white  and  tan  head,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

'  Good-bye,'  she  said,  frankly. 

That  was  all !  And  yet  it  made  Leslie's  heart  bound.  "Was 
he  indeed  to  go  to  Switzerland  to-morrow  1  He  must  manage  to 
get  out  of  it  somehow. 

And  all  the  way  to  Greyshot  he  listened  to  schemes  for  the 
work  to  be  done  next  session,  from  the  ardent  sanitary  reformer, 
though  just  then  the  devastation  of  all  England  would  scarcely 
have  roused  him,  so  long  as  he  was  assui-cd  of  the  safety  of 
Luke  Ptaeburn's  dauu-hter. 


CHAPTER  XXVin. 

THE  HAPriEST  OF  WEEKS. 

He  went  in  the  strength  of  dependence 

To  tread  where  his  Master  trod, 

To  gather  and  knit  together 

The  family  of  God. 

•        ••         ••••« 

With  a  conscience  freed  from  burdens, 
And  a  heart  set  free  from  care, 
To  niinistor  to  every  one 
Always  and  everywhere. 
Author  of  Chronicles  of  the  Schoiihcnj  Cotta  Family, 

After  this  came  a  happy,  imcventful  week  at  the  manor. 
Erica  often  thought  of  the  definition  of  happiness  which  Charles 
Osmond  had   once   given   her — 'Perfect  harmony  with  your 


THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEKS.  253 

surrouudings.'  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life.  Waif, 
who  was  slowly  recovering,  grew  pathetically  fond  of  hi% 
rescner.  The  children  were  devoted  to  her,  and  she  to  them.  She 
learnt  to  love  Gladys  very  much,  and  from  her  she  learnt  a 
good  deal  Avhich  helped  her  to  understand  Donovan's  past  life. 
Than,  too,  it  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  ever 
been  in  a  house  where  there  were  little  children,  and  probably 
Ralph  and  Dolly  did  more  for  her  than  countless  sermons  or 
whole  libraries  of  theology  could  have  done. 

Above  all,  there  was  Donovan,  and  the  friendship  of  such  a 
man  was  a  thing  which  made  life  a  sort  of  w^ordless  thanks- 
giving. At  times  even  in  those  she  loved  best,  even  in  her 
father  or  Charles  Osmond,  she  was  conscious  of  something 
Avliich  jarred  a  little;  but  so  perfect  was  her  sympathy  with 
Donovan,  so  closely  and  strangely  were  their  lives  and  cha- 
racters linked  together,  that  never  once  was  the  restfulness  of 
perfect  harmony  broken — Nature  and  circumstance  had,  as  it 
were,  tuned  them  to  each  other.  He  could  understand,  as  no 
one  else  could  understand,  the  reversal  of  thought  and  feeling 
which  she  had  passed  through  during  the  last  few  months.  He 
could  understand  the  perplexities  of  her  present  position, 
suddenly  confronted  with  the  world  of  wealth  and  fashion  and 
conventional  religion,  and  fresh  from  a  circle  where,  whatever 
the  errors  held  and  promulgated,  the  life  was  so  desperately 
earnest,  often  so  nobly  self-denying.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith,  good  man  as  he  was,  must  have  been  about  the  severest 
of  trials  to  a  new-born  faith.  He  iniderstood  how  Mr.  Cuth- 
bert's  malice  would  tend  to  re-awaken  the  harsh  class  judgment 
against  which,  as  a  Christian,  Erica  was  bound  to  struggle.  He 
could  fully  realise  the  irritated,  ruffled  state  she  was  in — she 
was  overdone,  and  wanted  perfect  I'est  and  quiet,  perfect  love 
and  sympathy.  He  and  his  wife  gave  her  all  these,  took  her 
not  only  to  their  house,  but  right  into  their  home,  and  how  to 
do  this  no  one  knew  so  well  as  Donovan,  perhaps  because  he 
had  once  been  in  much  the  same  position  himself.  It  was  his 
most  leisure  month,  the  time  he  always  devoted  to  home  and 
wife  and  children,  so  that  Erica  saw  a  great  deal  of  him.  He 
seemed  to  her  the  ideal  head  of  an  ideal  yet  real  home.  It  was 
one  of  those  homes — and  thank  God  there  are  such  ! — where 
belief  in  the  Unseen  reacts  vipon  the  life  in  the  seen,  making  it 
so  beautiful,  so  loveable,  that,  when  you  go  out  once  more  into 
the  ordinary  world,  you  go  with  a  widened  heart,  and  the  re- 
alisation that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  of  which  Christ  spoke  docs 
indeed  begin  upon  earth. 


254  THE  HAPPIEST  OF  WEEKS. 

It  is  strange,  iu  tracing  the  growth  of  spontaneous  love,  to 
notice  how  independent  it  is  of  time.  Love  annihilates  time — 
with  love,  as  with  God,  time  is  not.  Like  the  miracles,  it 
biings  into  nse  the  seonial  measurement  in  w^hich  '  one  day  is 
as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand  years  as  one  day.'  A  ■week, 
even  a  few  hours,  may  give  us  love  and  knowledge  and  mutual 
sympathy  with  one  which  the  intercourse  of  many  years  fails  to 
give  with  another. 

The  week  at  Oakdene  was  one  which  all  her  life  long  Erica 
looked  back  to  with  the  loving  remembrance  which  can  gild  and 
beautify  the  most  sorrowful  of  lives.  It  is  surely  a  mistake  to 
think  that  the  memory  of  past  delights  makes  present  pain 
sharper.  If  not,  why  do  we  all  so  universally  strive  to  make  the 
lives  of  cliildren  happy  ]  Is  it  not  because  we  know  that  happi- 
ness in  the  present  will  give  a  sort  of  reflected  happiness  eveia 
in  the  saddest  future  1  Is  it  not  because  we  know  how  in 
life's  bitterest  moments,  its  most  barren  and  desolate  paths,  we 
feel  a  warmth  about  our  heart,  a  smile  upon  our  lips,  when  w^e 
remember  the  old  home  days  with  their  eager,  childish  interests 
and  hopes,  their  vividly  recollected  pleasures,  their  sheltered 
luxuriance  of  f\\therly  and  motherly  love?  For  how  many 
thousands  did  the  jjoet  speak  when  he  WTote — - 

'  The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction.' 

A  benediction  which  outlives  the  cares  and  troubles  of  later 
life — which  we  may  carry  with  us  to  our  dying  day,  and  find 
perfected  indeed  in  that  Unseen,  whei'e 

'  All  we  have  willed,  or  hoiked,  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist, 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself.' 

There  was  only  one  bit  of  annoyance  during  the  whole 
time ;  it  was  on  the  Sunday,  the  day  before  Erica  was  to  go 
back  to  Greyshot.  Gladys  was  not  very  well  and  stayed  at 
home,  but  Donovan  and  Erica  went  to  church  with  the  children, 
starting  rather  early  that  they  might  enjoy  the  lovely  autumn 
morning,  and  also  that  they  might  put  the  weekly  wreaths  on 
two  graves  in  the  little  chui-chyard.  Donovan  himself  put  the 
flowers  vipon  the  first,  Kalph  and  Dolly  talking  softly  together 
about  'little  auntie  Dot,'  then  running  off  hand  in  hand  to 
make  the  '  captain's  glave  plitty,'  as  Dolly  expressed  it.  Erica, 
following  them,  glanced  at  the  plain  white  headstone  and  read 
the  name,  '  John  Frewin,  sometime  captain  of  the  Metora.' 

Then  they  went  together  into  the  little  country  church,  and 
all  at  once  a  shadow  fell  on  her  heart ;  for,  as  they  entered  at 
the  Mcst  end,  the  clergy  and  the  choristers  entered  tlic  chancel, 


THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEKS.  255 

and  she  saw  that  Mr.  Cuthbert  was  to  take  the  service.  The 
rector  was  taking  his  holiday,  and  had  enlisted  help  from 
Greyshot. 

Happily  no  man  has  it  in  his  power  to  mar  the  Church  of 
England  service,  but  by-and-by  came  the  sermon.  Now^  Mr. 
Cuthbert  cordially  detested  Donovan,  he  made  no  secret  of  it. 
H3  opposed  and  thwarted  him  on  every  possible  occasion,  and 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  personal  malice  had  something  to  do  with 
Iiij  choice  of  a  subject  for  that  morning's  sermon. 

He  had  brought  over  to  Oakdene  a  discourse  on  the  eternity 
of  punishment.  Perhaps  he  honestly  belie-ved  that  people 
could  be  frightened  to  heaven,  at  any  rate  he  preached  a  most 
ghastly  sermon,  and,  wdiat  was  worse,  preached  it  Avith  vin- 
dictive energy.  The  poor,  mangled,  much  distorted  test  about 
the  tree  lying  as  it  falls  was  brought  to  the  fore  once  again, 
and,  instead  of  bearing  reference  to  universal  charity  and  alms- 
giving as  it  was  intended  to  do,  was  ruthlessly  torn  from  its 
context  and  turned  into  a  parable  about  the  state  of  the  soul  at 
death.  The  words  '  damned '  and  '  damnation,'  with  all  their 
falsely  theologised  significance,  rang  through  the  little  church 
and  made  people  shudder,  though  all  the  time  the  speaker 
knew  well  enough  that  there  were  no  such  woi'ds  in  the  New 
Testament.  Had  he  been  there  himself  to  see,  he  could  not 
have  described  his  material  hell  more  graphically.  Presently, 
leaning  right  over  the  pulpit,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  manor  pew 
just  beneath  him,  he  asked,  h\  thundering  tones, — 'My  brethren, 
have  you  ever  realised  what  the  word  lost  means  V  Then  came 
a  long  catalogue  of  those  who  in  Mr.  Cuthbert's  opinion  would 
undoubtedly  be  'lost,'  in  which  of  course  all  Erica's  friends  and 
relatives  were  unhesitatingly  placed. 

Now  to  hear  what  we  sincerely  believe  to  be  eri'or  crammed 
down  the  throats  of  a  congregation  is  at  all  times  a  great  trial ; 
but,  when  our  nearest  and  dearest  are  remorselessly  thrust 
down  to  the  nethermost  hell,  impatience  is  apt  to  tui-n  to  wrath. 
Erica  thought  of  her  gentle,  loving,  unselfish  mother,  and 
though  nothing  could  alter  her  conviction  that  long  ere  now 
she  had  learnt  the  truths  hidden  from  her  in  life,  yet  she  could 
not  listen  to  ^Ir.  Cuthbei-t's  horrible  words  without  indignant 
emotion.  A  movement  from  Donovan  recalled  her.  Little 
Dorothy  was  on  his  knee  fiist  asleep ;  he  quietly  reached  out 
his  hand,  took  up  Erica's  prayer-book,  which  was  nearest  to 
him,  and  wrote  a  few  words  on  the  fly-leaf,  handing  the  book  to 
her.  She  read  them.  '  Definition  of  lost  :  not  found  yet.' 
Then  the  anger  and  grief  and  pain  died  away,  and,  though  the 


256  TUB  HArriEST  of  weeks. 

preacher  still  thundered  overhead,  God's  truth  stole  into  Erica's 
heart  once  more  by  means  of  one  of  his  earliest  consecrated 
preachers — a  little  child.  Once  more  Dolly  and  her  father 
were  to  her  a  parable  ;  and  presently,  glancing  away  through 
tlic  sunny  south  window,  her  eye  fell  upon  a  small  marl)lo 
tablet  just  below  it  that  she  had  not  before  noticed,  and  this 
furnished  her  ^\'ith  thoughts  which  outlasted  the  sermon. 

At  the  top  was  a  medallion,  the  profile  of  the  same  fine, 
soldierly-looking  man  whose  portrait  lumg  in  Donovan's  study, 
and  which  was    so   wonderfully  like   both   himself  and   little 
Ralph.     Beneath  was  the  following  inscription : — 
In  loving  Memory  of 
PiALPH  Faeeant, 
Who  died  at  Porthkerran,  Cornwall,  May  3,  13—, 
Aged  45. 
'Every  good  gift  and  every  perfect  gift  is  from  above,  and  cometh 
down  from  the  Father  of  lights,  with  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither 
shadow  of  turning.' 

The  date  was  sixteen  years  back,  but  the  tablet  was  com- 
paratively new,  and  could  not  have  been  up  more  than  six 
years  at  the  oiitside.  Erica  was  able  partly  to  understand  why 
Donovan  had  chosen  for  it  that  particular  text,  and  nothing 
could  more  effectually  have  countei-acted  Mr.  Cuthbert's  sermon 
than  the  thoughts  which  it  awoke  in  her. 

Nevertheless,  she  did  not  quite  get  over  the  ruffled  feeling, 
which  was  now  in  a  great  measure  physical,  and  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  relief  that  she  found  herself  again  in  the  open  air,  in 
the  warmth,  and  sunshine,  and  gladness  of  the  September  da3% 
Donovan  did  not  say  a  word.  They  passed  through  the  little 
churchyard,  and  walked  slowly  up  the  winding  lane ;  the 
children,  who  had  stopped  to  gather  a  fine  cluster  of  black- 
berries, were  close  behind  them.  In  the  silence,  every  word  of 
their  talk  could  be  distinctly  heard. 

*I  don't  like  God  !'  exclaimed  Ralph,  abruptly. 

'Oh,  you  naughty  !'  exclaimed  Dolly,  much  shocked. 

'No,  it  isn't  naxighty.  I  don't  think  He's  good.  Whj,  do 
you  think  father  would  let  us  be  sliut  u-p  in  a  liorrid  place  for 
always  and  always  "J  Course  he  wouldn't.  I  'spects,  if  we'd 
got  to  go,  he'd  come  too.' 

Donovan  and  Erica  looked  at  each  other.  Donovan  turned 
round,  and  held  out  his  hand,  at  which  both  children  rushed. 

'  Ralph,'  he  said,  '  if  any  one  told  you  that  I  might  some 
day  leave  off  loving  you,  leave  off  being  your  father — what 
would  you  dol' 


THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEKS.  257 

'I'd  knock  them  dowTi !'  said  Ralph,  clenching  his  small 
fist. 

Donovan  laughed  a  little,  but  did  not  then  attempt  to 
prove  the  questionable  Avisdom  of  such  a  proceeding. 

'Why  would  you  feel  inclined  to  knock  them  dowTi?'  ho 
aaked. 

'Because  it  would  be  a  -wicked  lie  !'  cried  Ralph.  'Because 
1  know  you  never  could,  father.' 

'You  are  quite  right.  Of  course  I  never  could.  You 
would  never  believe  any  one  who  told  you  that  I  could, 
because  you  would  know  it  w^as  impossible.  But  just  now  you 
believed  what  some  one  said  about  God,  though  you  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  me.  Never  believe  anything  which  con- 
tradicts "Our  Father."  It  will  be  our  Father  punishing  us 
now  and  hereafter,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  He  will  do  the 
best  possible  for  all  His  children.  You  are  quite  sure  that  I 
should  only  punish  you  to  do  you  good,  and  how  much  more 
sure  may  you  be  that  God,  who  loves  you  so  much  more,  will 
do  the  same,  and  will  never  give  you  up.' 

Ralph  looked  hard  at  his  bunch  of  blackberries,  and  waa 
silent.  Many  thoughts  were  working  in  his  childish  brain. 
Presently  he  said,  meditatively, — 

'  He  did  shout  it  out  so  loud  and  horrid  !  I  s'pose  he  had 
forgotten  abovit  '  Our  Father.'  But,  you  see,  Dolly,  it  was  all 
a  mistake.     Come  along  !  let's  race  down  the  drive.' 

Off  they  ran.  Erica  fancied  that  Donovan  watched  them 
rather  sadly. 

'I  thought  Ralph  was  listening  in  church,'  she  said. 
'  Fancy  a  child  of  his  age  thinking  it  all  out  like  that ! ' 

'  Children  think  much  more  than  people  imagine,'  said 
Donovan.  '  And  a  child  invariably  carries  out  a  doctrine  to  its 
logical  conclusion.  'Tis  wonderful  the  fine  sense  of  justice 
which  you  always  find  in  them !' 

'Ralph  inherits  that  from  you,  I  should  think.  How 
exactly  like  you  he  is,  specially  when  he  is  puzzling  out  some 
question  in  his  own  mind.' 

A  strange  shadow  passed  over  Donovan's  face.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment. 

'  Tis  hard  to  be  brave  for  one's  own  child,'  he  said  at  last. 
'  I  confess  that  the  thought  that  Ralph  may  have  to  live 
through  what  I  have  lived  through  is  almost  unendurable 
to  me.' 

'How  vexed  you  must  have   been   that  he  heard  to-day's 
sermon,'  said  Erica. 
12 


25Jj  THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEKS. 

'Not  now,'  he  replied,  'He  has  heard  and  taken  in  the 
other  side,  and  has  instinctively  recognised  the  truth.  If  I 
had  had  some  one  to  say  as  much  to  me  when  I  Avas  his  age, 
it  might  have  saved  me  twenty  years  of  atheism.' 

'  It  is  not  only  children  who  are  repulsed  by  this,'  said 
Erica.  '  Or  learned  men  like  James  Mill.  I  know  well 
enough  that  hundreds  of  my  father's  followers  were  driven 
away  from  Christianity  merely  by  having  this  view  constantly 
put  before  them.  How  were  they  to  know  that  half  the 
words  about  it  were  mistranslations'?  How  were  they  to 
study  when  they  were  hard  at  work  from  week's  end  to 
week's  endl  It  seems  to  me  downright  wicked  of  scholars 
and  learned  men  to  keep  their  light  hidden  away  under  a 
bushel,  and  then  pretend  that  they  fear  the  "people"  are 
not  I'eady  for  it.' 

'As  though  God's  truth  needed  bolstering  up  with  error!' 
exclaimed  Donovan.  '  As  though,  to  believe  a  hideous  lie  could 
ever  be  right  or  helpful !  There's  a  vast  amount  of  Jesiutry 
among  well-meaning  Protestants.' 

'And  always  will  be,  I  should  think,'  said  Erica.  'As 
long  as  people  will  think  of  possible  consequences,  instead  of 
the  absolutely  true.  But  I  could  forgive  them  all,  if  their 
idea  of  the  danger  of  telling  the  people  were  founded  on  real 
study  of  the  people.  But  is  it  ?  How  many  of  the  eonservera 
of  half  truths,  who  talk  so  loudly  about  the  effect  on  the 
masses,  have  personally  known  the  men  who  go  to  make  up 
the  masses  V 

'  Yes,  you  are  right,'  said  Donovan.  'As  a  rule,  I  fancy  the 
educated  classes  know  less  about  the  working  classes  than  they 
do  about  the  heathen,  and,  I  am  aft-aid,  care  less  about  them. 
You  have  an  immense  advantage  there  both  as  a  writer  and  a 
worker,  for  I  suppose  you  really  have  been  brought  into  con- 
tact with  them.' 

'Yes,'  said  Erica,  'all -my  life.  How  I  should  like  to  con- 
fiont  ]\Ir.  Cuthbert  with  a  man  like  Hazeldine,  or  with  dozens 
of  others  whom  I  could  name  !' 

'  Why  V  asked  Donovan. 

'  Because  no  one  could  really  know  such  men  without  learn- 
ing Avhere  the  present  systems  want  mending.  If  Hazeldine 
could  be  shut  into  Mr.  Cuthbcrt's  study  for  a  few  hoiu's,  and 
induced  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life,  I  believe  he  would  have  the 
effect  of  the  ancient  mariner  on  the  wedding  guest.  Only,  the 
worst  of  it  is,  I'm  aliuid  the  very  look  of  Mr.  Cuthbert  would 
quite  shut  him  up.' 


P 


THE  HAPriEST  OF  WEEKS.  259 

*  Tell  me  about  liim,'  said  Donovan. 

*  It  is  nothing  at  second  hand/  said  Erica.  *  He  is  a  shoe- 
maker, as  grand-looking  a  fellow  as  you  ever  saw,  fond  of  read- 
ing, and  very  thoughtful,  and  with  more  quiet  common-sense 
than  almost  any  one  I  ever  met.  He  had  been  brought  up  to 
believe  in  verbal  inspiration — that  had  been  thoroughly  cram- 
med down  his  throat;  but  no  one  had  attempted  to  touch  upon 
the  contradictions,  the  thousand  and  one  difficulties  which  of 
course  he  found  directly  he  began  to  study  the  Bible.  So  he 
puzzled  and  puzzled,  and  got  more  and  more  dissatisfied,  and 
never  in  church  heard  anything  which  explained  his  difficulties. 
At  last  one  day  in  his  workshop  a  man  lent  him  a  number  of 
the  Idol-Brealcer,  and  in  it  was  a  paper  by  my  father  on  the 
Atonement.  It  came  to  him  like  a  great  light  in  his  darkness; 
he  says  he  shall  never  forget  the  sudden  conviction  that  the 
man  who  wrote  that  article  understood  every  one  of  his  diffi- 
culties, and  would  be  able  to  clear  them  right  away.  The 
next  Sunday  he  went  to  hear  my  father  lecture.  I  believe  it 
would  make  the  veriest  flint  cry  to  hear  his  account  of  it,  to 
see  the  look  of  reverent  love  that  comes  over  his  face  when  he 
says,  "And  there  I  found  Mr.  Raeburn  ready  to  answer  all  my 
difficulties,  not  holding  one  at  arm's  length  and  talking  big  and 
patronising  for  all  he  was  so  clever,  but  just  like  a  mate."  That 
man  would  die  for  my  father  any  day — hundreds  of  them 
would.' 

'  I  can  well  believe  it,'  said  Donovan.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he 
added,  '  To  induce  Christians  to  take  a  fair,  unprejudiced  look 
at  true  secularism,  and  to  induce  secularists  to  take  a  fair, 
unprejudiced  view  of  true  Christ-following,  seems  to  me  to  be 
the  great  need  of  to-day.' 

'If  one  could  !'  said  Erica,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

'  If  any  one  can,  you  can,'  he  replied. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  awed  by  the  earnestness  of 
liis  tone.  Was  she— a  young  girl,  conscious  of  so  many  faults 
and  failings,  conscious  of  being  at  the  very  threshold  herself — 
to  dare  even  to  attempt  such  a  task  ]  Yet  was  it  a  question  of 
daring  to  attempt  ?  Was  it  not  rather  the  bit  of  work  mapped 
out  for  her,  to  undertake,  perhaps  to  fail  in,  but  still  bravely  to 
attempt  1  Her  heart  throbbed  with  eager  yearning  as  the 
vision  rose  before  her.  What  was  mere  personal  pain  1  what 
was  injustice  ?  what  was  misunderstanding  ]  Why,  in  such  a 
cause  she  could  endure  anything  ! 

'  I  would  die  to  help  on  that !'  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

'Will   you   live   fur   \tV  asked    Donovan,    with   his   rare, 


2G0  THE  HAPPIEST  OP  WEEKS. 

beautiful  smile.  '  Live,  and  do  something  more  than  endure 
the  Lady  Carolines  and  Mr.  Cnthbert'sl' 

Few  things  arc  more  inspiriting  than  the  realisation  that 
we  are  called  to  some  special  work  -wliich  will  need  our  highest 
faculties,  our  untiring  exertions — Avhich  will  demand  all  that  is 
good  in  us,  and  will  make  growth  in  good  imperative.  With 
the  peacefuluess  of  that  country  Sunday  was  interwoven  a 
delicious  perception  that  hard,  beautiful  work  lay  beyond. 
Erica  wandered  about  the  shady  Mountshire  woods  with  Gladys 
ind  the  children,  and  in  the  cool  restfulness,  in  the  stillness 
md  beauty,  got  a  firm  hold  of  her  lofty  ideal,  and  rose  above 
;he  petty  vexations  and  small  frictions  which  had  been  spoiling 
tier  life  at  Greyshot. 

The  manor  grounds  were  always  thrown  open  to  the  public 
on  Sunday,  and  a  band  in  connexion  with  one  of  the  temper- 
.mce  societies  played  on  the  lawn.  Donovan  had  been  much 
persecuted  by  the  Sabbatarians  for  sanctioning  this ;  but, 
ihough  soiTy  to  offend  any  one,  he  could  not  allow  what  he 
considered  mistaken  scruples  to  interfere  with  such  a  boon  to 
the  public.  Crowds  of  working  men  and  women  came  each 
week  away  from  their  densely-packed  homes  into  the  pure 
country  ;  the  place  was  for  the  time  given  up  to  them,  and 
they  soon  learnt  to  love  it,  to  look  upon  it  as  a  property  in 
which  they  had  a  real  and  recognised  share. 

Squire  Ward,  who  owned  the  neighbouring  estate,  grumbled 
a  good  deal  at  the  intrusion  of  what  he  called  the  '  rabble '  into 
<juiet  Oakdene. 

'  That's  the  worst  of  such  men  as  Farrant,'  he  used  to  say. 
'■  They  begin  by  rushing  to  one  extreme,  and  end  by  rushing  to 
the  other.  Such  a  want  of  steady  conservative  balance  !  He's 
a  good  man  ;  but,  poor  fellow,  he'll  never  be  like  other  people, 
never  !' 

Mrs.  Ward  was  almost  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  been 
less  obnoxious  in  the  old  times.  As  a  professed  atheist,  he 
could  be  shunned  and  ignored,  but  his  uncomfortably  practical 
Christianity  had  a  way  of  shaking  up  tlic  sleepy  neighbourhood, 
and  the  neighbourhood  did  not  at  all  like  being  shaken  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


GEEYSnOT  AGAIN. 


To  what  purpose  do  you  profess  to  believe  in  the  unity  of  the  human 
riiee,  which  is  the  necessary  consequence  of  the  unity  of  God,  if  you  do 
nt  t  strive  to  verify  it  by  destroying  the  arbitrary  divisions  and  enmities 
til  at  still  separate  the  different  tribes  of  humanity?  Why  do  we  talk  of 
fraternity  while  we  allow  any  of  our  bretlrren  to  be  trampled  on,  degraded, 
or  despised  ?  The  earth  is  our  workshop.  We  may  not  curse  it,  we  are 
bound  to  sanctify  it  ...  .  We  must  strive  to  make  of  humanity  one 
single  family. — Mazzini. 

Erica's  appearance  at  Lady  Caroline's  dinner-party  had  caused 
a  sort  of  storm  in  a  tea-cup  ;  the  small  world  of  Greyshot  was 
in  a  state  of  ferment,  and  poor  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  suffered  a  good 
deal  from  the  consciousness  that  she  and  her  family  were  the 
subject  of  all  the  gossip  of  the  place.  Her  little  expedients  had 
failed,  and  she  began  to  reflect  ruefully  that  perfect  sincerity, 
plain  honesty,  would  have  been  the  best  policy,  after  all.  By 
the  time  that  a  week  had  passed,  however,  censure  and  harsh 
comments  began  to  give  place  to  curiosity,  and  the  result  of 
this  was  that  on  Monday,  Avhich  was  Mrs.  Fane-Smith's  '  at 
home  '■  day,  Greyshot  found  it  convenient  to  call  in  large 
numbers. 

Erica,  returning  from  Oakdcne  in  the  afternoon,  found  her 
work  awaiting  her.  Her  heart  beat  rather  q\iickly  when,  on 
entering  the  drawing-room,  she  found  it  full  of  visitors :  she 
half-smiled  to  herself  to  find  such  an  opportunity  of  beginning 
Donovan's  work.  And  very  bravely  she  set  about  it.  Those 
who  had  come  from  curiosity  not  unmixed  with  malice  were 
won  in  spite  of  themselves  ,  even  Mr.  Cuthbert,  who  bore  down 
upon  her  with  the  full  intention  of  making  her  uncomfortable, 
found  himself  checkmated  as  effectually  as  at  Lady  Caroline's 
dinner-table,  though  in  a  very  different  way. 

'  I  think  1  saw  you  in  church  yesterday  morning  V  he  re- 
marked, by  way  of  introducing  a  discordant  subject. 

'Yes,'  replied  Erica,  'I  have  been  staying  at  Oakdene 
Manor,  and  had  a  most  delicious  time.' 

'Sharing  Mr.  Farrant's  philanthropic  labours  1'  asked  Mi*. 
Cuthbert,  with  his  unpleasant  smile. 

She  laughed. 

'  No ;  I  have  been  thoroughly  lazy,  and  September  is  their 
holiday  month,  too.     You  would  have  been  amused  to  see  us 


262  GREYSnOT  AGAIN. 

the  other  evening  a.11  hard  at  Avork  making  paper  frogs  hke  so 
many  children.' 

'  Paper  frogs  !'  said  ]\Ir.  Cuthbcrt,  with  an  intonation  that 
suggested  sarcasm. 

'  Yes  ;  have  you  ever  seen  them  V  asked  Erica.  '  I  don't 
think  many  jjcople  knoAv  how  to  make  them.  Feltrino  taught 
me  when  1  was  a  little  girl — I'll  show  you,  if  you  like.' 

'  Did  you  ever  meet  Feltrino  V  asked  Lady  Caroline. 

She  knew  very  little  of  the  Italian  patriot.  In  his  lifetime 
he  had  been  despised  and  rejected,  but  he  was  now  dead ;  his 
biography — a  well-written  one — was  in  all  the  circulating 
libraries,  and  even  those  who  were  far  from  agreeing  with  his 
political  views,  had  learnt  something  of  the  nobility  of  his 
character.  So  there  was  both  surprise  and  envy  in  Lady 
Caroline's  tone ;  she  had  a  weakness  for  celebrities. 

*I  saw  him  once  Avhen  I  was  seven  years  old,' said  Erica. 
'  He  knew  my  father,  and  one  day  we  were  overtaken  by  a 
tremendous  shower,  and  happened  to  meet  Feltrino,  who  made 
us  come  into  his  rooms  and  wait  till  it  was  over.  And  while 
they  talked  Italian  politics  I  sat  and  watched  him.  He  had 
the  most  wonderful  eyes  I  ever  saw,  and  presently,  looking  up 
and  seeing  me,  he  laughed  and  took  me  on  his  knee,  saying 
that  politics  must  not  spoil  my  holiday,  and  that  he  would 
show  me  how  to  make  Japanese  frogs.  Once,  when  he  was 
imprisoned,  and  was  hardly  allowed  to  have  any  books,  the 
making  of  these  frogs   kej^t   him   from   going   mad,  he  said.' 

While  she  spoke  she  had  been  deftly  folding  a  sheet  of 
])aper,  and  several  people  were  watching  curiously.  Before 
very  long  the  frog  was  completed,  and  the  imitation  proved  so 
clever  that  there  was  an  unanimous  chorus  of  approval  and 
admiration.  Every  one  wanted  to  learn  how  to  make  them  ; 
the  Feltrino  frogs  became  the  topic  of  the  afternoon,  and  Erica 
faix'ly  conquered  the  malicious  tongues.  She  was  superin- 
tending Lady  Caroline's  first  attempt  at  a  frog,  when  a 
familiar  name  made  her  look  up. 

'  Mrs.  Cunningham — Mi*.  Leslie  Cunningham.' 

'I  thought  you  were  in  Switzerland  !'  she  exclaimed,  as  lie 
crossed  the  room  and  shook  hands  with  her. 

*  I  never  got  further  than  Paris,'  he  said,  smiling.  '  ^ly 
brother  has  gone  instead,  and  I  am  going  to  follow  your  ex- 
ample and  study  the  beauties  of  English  scenery.' 

Perhaps  Greyshot  opinion  was  more  conciliated  by  the  long 
talk  with  Mr.  Leslie  Cuuningliam,  M.P.,  than  even  by  the 
Feltrino  frogs.     To  have  Luke   Uaebuni's  daughter  suddenly 


GREYSnOT  AGAIN.  263 

tarust  into  the  midst  of  tlieir  select  society  at  Lady  Caroline's 
dinner  was  one  thing — they  had  one  and  all  shunned  her. 
But  when  she  proved  to  be,  after  all,  clever,  and  fascinating, 
and  original,  when  they  knew  that  she  had  sat  on  Feltrino's 
knee  as  a  little  child,  above  all,  when  they  saw  that  Leslie 
Cunningham  was  talking  to  her  with  mingled  friendliness  and 
deference,  they  veered  round.  Politically,  they  hated  Sir 
Michael  Cunningham,  but  in  society  they  were  pleased  enough 
to  meet  him,  and  in  Greyshot,  naturally  enough,  his  son  was  a 
'lion.'  Greyshot  made  much  of  him  during  his  stay  at  Blacl'- 
ingbury,  and  he  found  it  very  convenient  just  then  to  be  made 
much  of. 

Hardly  a  day  of  that  week  passed  in  which  he  did  not  in 
some  way  meet  Erica.  He  met  her  in  the  park  with  her 
aunt ;  he  sat  next  to  her  at  an  evening  concert ;  he  went  to 
the  theatre  and  watched  her  all  through  'Hamlet,' and  came 
to  the  Fane-Smith's  box  between  the  acts.  Yet,  desperately 
as  he  was  in  love,  he  could  not  delude  himself  with  the  belief 
that  she  cared  for  him.  She  was  always  bright,  talkative, 
frank,  even  friendly,  but  that  was  all.  Yet  her  unlikeness  to 
the  monotonously  same  girls,  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
meeting,  fascinated  him  more  and  more  each  day.  She  was  to 
go  back  to  town  on  the  Monday;  on  Friday  it  so  happened 
that  she  met  Leslie  Cunningham  at  a  great  flower-show,  and 
with  perfect  unconsciousness  piqued  him  almost  beyond  en- 
durance. Now  at  last  he  hoped  to  make  her  understand  his 
admiration.  They  discussed  '  Hamlet,'  and  he  had  just  brought 
the  conversation  adroitly  round  to  the  love-scene  in  the  third 
act,  when  Erica  suddenly  dashed  his  hopes  to  the  ground. 

'Oh,  how  lovely!'  she  exclaimed,  pausiug  before  a  beau- 
tiful exotic.     '  Surely  that  must  be  an  orchid  ]' 

And  the  reluctant  Leslie  found  the  conversation  drifting 
round  to  botany,  about  which  he  knew  little  and  cared  less. 
Once  more  his  hopes  were  raised  only  to  be  frustrated.  He  was 
sitting  beside  Mrs.  Fane-Smith  and  Erica,  and  had  managed  to 
stem  the  tide  of  the  botany.  The  band  was  playing.  Erica, 
half-listening  to  the  music  and  half-attending  to  his  talk, 
looked  dreamily  peaceful ;  surely  nov/  wiis  the  time  !  Bvit  all 
at  once  the  clear  eyes  looked  up  with  their  perfectly  wide- 
awake interest,  and  she  exclaimed, — ■ 

'  I  do  wish  the  Farrants  would  come  !  they  certainly  meant 
to  be  here.     I  can't  make  it  out.' 

Leslie  patiently  talked  about  the  member  for  Greyshot; 
but,  just  when  he  hoped  he  was  quit  of  the  subject,  Erica  gave 


264  GREYSHOT  AGAm. 

an  exclamation  of  such   unfeigned   delight  that  a  consuming 
envy  took  possession  of  him. 

*  Oh,  there  he  is  !  and  Ralph  and  Dolly  too  ! ' 

And  in  a  moment  the  Oakdene  party  had  joined  them,  and 
Leslie  saw  that  his  chances  for  that  day  were  over.  Before 
long  he  had  made  his  escape,  leaving  the  grounds  not  moodily, 
but  with  the  light  of  a  new  and  eager  determination  in 
his  eye. 

Erica,  returning  from  the  flower-show  late  in  the  afternoon, 
found  a  note  awaiting  her,  and  opened  it  unconcernedly  enough 
on  her  way  up  to  her  room.  But  the  first  glance  at  it  brought 
a  glow  of  colour  to  her  face  and  a  nameless  fear  to  her  heart. 
She  ran  on  quickly,  locked  her  door,  and  by  the  ruddy  firelight 
read  in  a  sort  of  dumb  dismay  her  first  offer  of  marriage.  This 
then  was  the  meaning  of  it  all.  This  was  the  cause  of  his 
hurried  return  to  England;  this  had  brought  her  the  long  talks 
which  had  been  so  pleasant,  yes,  strangely  unaccountably 
pleasant.  Yet,  for  all  that,  she  knew  well  enough  that  she  had 
nothing  to  give  in  return  for  the  love  revealed  in  every  word  of 
the  letter.  She  liked  him,  liked  to  talk  to  him,  thought  him 
clever  and  interesting,  but  that  was  all.  His  wife  !  Oh,  no  1 
impossible  !  That  could  never  be  !  And  then,  as  usual,  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  strange  sense  of  discomfort  and  perplexity, 
there  came  a  flash  of  humour  which  made  her  laugh  noiselessly 
in  the  dim  light.     *Tom  would  call  me  Mrs.  Sly  bacon  !' 

But  a  second  reading  of  the  letter  made  her  look  grave. 
She  was  very  much  puzzled  to  know  how  to  answer  it ;  how,  in 
refusing,  to  give  him  least  pain.  There  was  nothing  else  to 
hesitate  about,  of  her  own  mind  she  was  quite  sure.  There 
was  only  an  hour  till  post  time.  She  must  Avrite  at  once,  and 
she  must  write  in  a  way  which  could  not  be  mistaken.  There 
was  not  a  grain  of  coquetry  about  Erica.  After  some  thought 
she  wrote  the  following  lines  : — 

*  Dear  Mr.  Cunningham, 

'  Your  letter  surprised  me  very  much  and 
pained  me,  too,  because  in  replying  I  fear  I  must  give  you 
pain.  I  thank  jon  for  the  honour  you  have  done  me,  but  I 
can  never  be  your  Avife.  Even  if  I  could  return  your  love, 
which  I  cannot,  it  could  never  be  right.  People  are  so  preju- 
diced that  the  connexion  of  our  names  might  greatly  injure 
your  public  Avork,  and,  besides,  you  could  not  live  in  tlie  circle 
in  Avhich  I  live,  and  nothing  could  ever  make  it  right  for  me  to 
leave  my  own  people.     I  cannot  write  as  I  should  like  to — I 


GllEYSUOT  AGAIN.  2G5 

cannot  say  what  I  would,  or  thank  you  as  I  would — but  please 
understand  me,  and 

'  Believe  me,  yours  very  sincerely, 

'  Erica  Kaeburn.' 

Strange  enough  the  writing  of  that  letter,  the  realisation 
of  the  impossibility  of  accepting  Leslie  Cunningham's  offer, 
ripened  out  to  Erica  a  new  region,  started  her  upon  a  new  stage 
(•■!  her  life-progi'ess.  lu  spite  of  her  trouble  at  the  thought  of 
the  pain  she  must  give,  there  was  an  indefinable  sense  that  life 
and  love  meant  much  more  than  she  had  hithei-to  dreamed  of ; 
and,  though  for  the  next  few  days  she  was  a  little  grave  and 
silent,  there  rang  in  her  ears  the  refrain, 

'  Oh,  life,  oh,  beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet.' 

She  was  not  sorry  that  her  visit  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
although  the  last  week  had  gone  much  more  smoothly.  Her 
vigorous  nature  began  to  long  to  return  to  the  working-day 
world,  and  thoiigh  she  could  veiy  honestly  thank  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith  for  his  kindness,  she  turned  her  back  on  his  house  with 
unmixed  satisfaction. 

'And  you  cannot  change  your  mind  as  to  my  suggestion*?' 
he  asked,  sending  off  one  parting  aiTow. 

'I  cannot,'  said  Erica,  firmly,  'he  is  my  father.' 

'  You  must  of  course  make  your  own  choice,'  he  said,  with  a 
sigh.  '  But  you  are  sadly  wrong,  sadly  wrong  !  In  my  opinion 
your  father  is ' 

'  Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,'  said  Erica,  '  but  by  your 
own  showing  you  have  no  right  to  have  any  opinion  whatever 
about  my  father.  Until  you  have  either  learnt  to  know  him 
personally,  heard  him  speak,  or  fairly  and  carefully  studied  his 
writings,  you  have  no  grounds  to  form  an  opinion  upon.' 

'  But  the  cuiTent  opinion  is ' 

'  The  current  opinion  is  no  more  an  opinion  than  yours  !  It 
is  the  view  of  most  bitter  opponents.  And,  candidly,  umild 
you  accej)t  the  current  opinion  held  of  any  prominent  states- 
man by  his  adversaries'?  Why,  the  best  men  living  are 
represented  as  fiends  in  human  shape  by  their  enemies  !  And 
if  this  is  so  in  political  matters,  how  much  more  in  such  a  case 
as  my  father's.' 

Mr.  Fane-Smith,  who  was  a  well-meaning  though  narrow 
man,  sighed  again  ;  it  was  always  very  painful  to  him  to  listen 
to  views  which  did  not  coincide  with  his  own. 


266  BLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR. 

*  Well,'  he  said,  at  length,  '  there  is,  after  all,  the  hope  that 
you  may  convert  him.' 

'  I  hope  you  don't  want  me  to  turn  into  one  of  thoso 
hateful  little  prigs,  who  go  about  lamenting  over  their 
imregenerate  parents,'  said  Erica,  naughtily.  Then,  softening 
down,  she  added,  '  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean — perhaps  I 
was  wrong  to  speak  like  that,  only  somehow,  knowing  what  my 
father  is,  it  does  grate  so  to  put  it  in  that  way.  But  don't 
think  I  would  not  give  my  life  for  him  to  come  to  the  liglit 
liere  and  now, — for  I  would  ! — I  would  ! ' 

She  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together,  and  tu.rned  quickly 
away. 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  touched. 

'Well,  my  dear,'  he  said.  'You  may  be  right,  after  all, 
and  I  may  be  wrong.  All  my  anxiety  is  only  for  your 
ultimate  good.' 

The  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  he  gave  her  a  warm 
handshake,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  jarred  in  their  respective 
natures.  Erica  ended  by  liking  him  the  best  of  her  new 
relations. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR. 

For  sLander  lives  upon  succession, 
For  ever  housed,  where  it  once  gets  possession. 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

Not  out  of  malice,  but  mere  zeal, 
Because  he  was  an  infidel. 

Iludihras. 

'  Blessed  old  London,  how  delightful  it  is  to  come  back  to 
it !'  exclaimed  Erica,  as  she  and  Tom  drove  home  from 
Paddington  on  the  afternoon  of  her  return  from  Greyshot. 
'  Tell  the  man  not  to  go  through  the  back  streets,  there's  a 
good  boy  !  Ah,  he's  doing  it  of  his  own  accord  !  Why,  the 
park  trees  are  much  browner  than  the  IMountshire  ones!' 

'  We  have  been  prophesying  all  manner  of  evil  about  your 
coming  back,'  said  Tom,  looking  her  over  critically  from  head 
to  foot.  '  I  believe  mother  thouglit  you  would  never  come 
— that  the  good  Christians  down  at  Greyshot  having  caught 
you  would  keep  you,  and  even  the  chieftain  was  the  least  bit 
in  the  world  uneasy.' 


SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR.  2G7 

'  Nonsense,'  said  Erica,  laughing,  '  lie  knows  better.' 

'  But  they  did  want  to  keep  you  ]' 

'  Yes.' 

'  How  did  you  get  out  of  it  ?' 

'Said,  "Much  obliged  to  you,  but  I'd  ratlier  not."  Enacted 
Mrs.  Micawbei',  you  know,  "  I  never  will,  no,  I  never  will  leave 
Mr.  Micawber." ' 

'  Mr.  Fane-Smith  must  have  been  a  brute  ever  to  have 
proposed  such  a  thing  ! ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  not  at  all  ]  Within  certain  limits  he  is  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  only  he  is  one  of  those  who  believe  in  that 
hateful  saying,  "Men  without  the  knowledge  of  God  arc  cattle." 
And,  believing  that,  would  treat  atheists  as  I  should  be  sorry 
to  treat  Friskarina.' 

'  And  what  is  the  world  of  Greyshot  like]' 

'  It  is  very  lukewarm  about  public  questions,  and  very 
boiling  hot  about  its  own  private  affairs,' said  Erica.  'But  I 
have  learnt  now  how  people  in  society  can  go  on  contentedly 
living  their  easy  lives  in  the  midst  of  such  ignorance  and 
misery.  They  never  investigate,  and  when  any  painful  in- 
stance is  alluded  to,  they  say,  "Oh!  but  it  canH  be  true!" 
The  other  day  they  were  speaking  of  Kingsley's  pamphlet, 
"  Cheap  clothes  and  nasty,"  and  one  lady  said  that  was  quite 
an  evil  of  the  past,  that  the  difficulty  now-a-days  was  to  get 
things  at  reasonable  prices.  When  I  told  her  that  w^omen  only 
get  twopence  for  doing  all  the  machine-work  of  an  ulster,  and 
have  to  provide  their  machine,  cotton,  food,  light,  and  fuel,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  that  is  incredible  !  It  must  be  exaggerated  ! 
Such  things  couldn't  be  now  !"  When  Aunt  Isobel  heard  that 
I  had  known  cases  of  men  being  refused  admission  to  a  hospital 
supported  by  public  subscriptions,  on  the  ground  of  their 
atheism,  she  said  it  was  impossible.  And  as  to  physical  ill- 
treatment,  or,  in  fact,  any  injustice  having  ever  been  shown  by 
Christian  to  atheist,  she  would  not  hear  of  it.  It  was  always 
"My  dear,  the  atmosphere  in  which  you  have  lived  has  dis- 
torted your  vision,"  or,  "You  have  been  told,  my  dear,  that 
these  things  were  so  !"  To  tell  her  that  they  were  facts  which 
could  be  verified  was  not  the  smallest  good,  for  she  wouldn't  so 
mucli  as  touch  any  publication  connected  with  secularism.' 

'  None  are  so  blind  as  those  who  will  not  see,'  said  Tom. 
'  They  will  go  on  in  this  way  till  some  great  national  crisis, 
some  crash  which  they  can't  ignore,  wakes  them  up  from  their 
comfortable  state.  "  It  can't  be  true,"  is  no  doubt  a  capital 
narcotic' 


268  SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR. 

'  Father  is  at  home,  I  suppose  1     How  do  you  think  lie  is  V 

'  Oh,  Tcrj'  well,  but  fearfully  busy.  The  "  Miracles  "  trial 
will  probably  come  on  in  November.' 

Erica  sighed.  There  was  a  silence.  She  looked  out 
rather  sadly  at  the  familiar  Oxford  Street  shops. 

'  You  have  not  come  back  approving  of  the  Blasphemy 
Laws,  I  hope  V  said  Tom,  misinterpreting  her  sigh. 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

*  Of  course  not !'  she  said  emphatically, 

*  Mr  Osmond  has,  as  usual,  been  getting  into  hot  water  for 
speaking  a  word  on  the  chieftain's  behalf.' 

'  Did  he  speak  1  I  am  glad  of  that,'  said  Erica,  brightening. 
'  I  expect  Mr.  Pogson's  conduct  will  stir  up  a  good  many 
liberal  Christians  into  showing  their  disapproval  of  bigotry  and 
injustice.  Ah  !  here  is  the  dear  old  square  !  The  statue  looks 
ten  degrees  mouldicr  than  when  I  left !' 

In  fact  everything  looked,  as  Erica  exjjressed  it,  'mouldicr  !' 
*  Persecution  Alley,'  the  lodging  house,  the  very  chairs  and 
tables  seemed  to  obtrude  their  shabbiness  upon  her.  Not  that 
she  cared  in  the  least ;  for,  however  shabby,  it  was  home — the 
home  that  she  had  longed  for  again  and  again  in  4he  luxury 
and  ease  of  Greyshot. 

Raebum  looked  up  from  a  huge  law  book  as  she  opened  tho 
door  of  his  study. 

'Why,  little  son  Eric!'  he  exclaimed.  'You  came  so 
quietly  that  I  never  heard  you.  Glad  to  have  you  home  again, 
my  child  !     The  room  looks  as  if  it  needed  you,  doesn't  it  ] 

Erica  laughed,  for  the  study  was  indeed  in  a  state  of  chaos. 
Books  were  stacked  up  on  the  floor,  on  the  mantel-piece,  on  the 
chairs,  on  the  very  steps  of  the  book-ladder.  The  writing 
table  was  a  sea  of  papers,  periodicals,  proofs,  and  manuscripts, 
upon  Avhich  there  floated  with  much  difficulty  Eaeburn'a 
writing-desk  and  the  book  he  was  reading,  some  slight  de- 
pression in  the  sun'ounding  mass  of  papers  showing  where  his 
elbows  had  been. 

'About  equal  to  Teufelsdrochs  room,  isn't  it?'  he  said 
smiling.  '  "Everything  united  in  a  common  element  of  dust.'' 
But,  really,  after  the  first  terrible  day  of  your  absence,  Avhen  1 
wasted  at  least  an  hour  in  hunting  for  things  which  the  tidy 
domestic  had  carefully  hidden,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
gave  orders  that  no  one  was  to  bring  bnish  or  duster  or  spirit 
of  tidiness  within  the  place.' 

'  We  really  must  try  to  get  you  a  larger  room,'  said  Erica, 
looking  round.     '  IIuw  little  and  poky  everything  looks.' 


SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR,  269 

*  Has  Grey  shot  made  you  discontented  V 

*  Only  for  yovi,'  she  replied,  laughing.  '  I  was  thinking  of 
Mr.  Fane-Smith's  great  study  ;  it  seems  such  a  pity  that  five 
foot  three,  Avith  few  books  and  nothing  to  do,  should  have  all 
that  space,  and  six  foot  four,  with  much  work  and  many  books, 
be  cramped  up  in  this  little  room.' 

'  What  would  you  say  to  a  move  V 

'  It  will  be  such  an  expensive  year,  and  there's  that  dreadful 
Mr.  Pogson  always  in  the  background.' 

'  But  if  a  house  were  given  to  us  1  Where's  Tomi  I've  a 
letter  here  which  concerns  you  both.  Do  either  of  you  remember 
anything  about  an  old  Mr.  Woodward  who  lived  at  16 
Guilford  Square  V 

'Why,  yes  !  Don't  you  remember,  Tom]  The  old  gentleman 
whose  green-hoiise  we  smashed.' 

'  Rather  !'  said  Tom.  'I've  the  marks  of  the  beastly  thing 
now.' 

*  What  was  it  1  Let  me  hear  the  story  1  said  Raeburn, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  a  look  of  amusement  flickering 
about  his  rather  stern  fice. 

'Why,  father,'  it  was  years  ago;  you  were  on  your  first 
tour  in  America,  I  must  have  been  about  twelve,  and  Tom 
fourteen.  AVe  had  only  just  settled  in  here,  you  know;  and 
one  xmlucky  Saturday  we  were  playing  in  the  garden  at  "King 
of  the  Castle.'" 

'  What's  that  V  asked  Raeburn. 

'  Why,  Tom  was  king,  and  I  was  the  Republican  Anny ; 
and  Tom  was  standing  on  the  top  of  the  wall  trying  to  push  me 
down.     He  had  to  sing, 

"  I'm  the  king  of  the  castle  ! 
Get  down,  you  dirty  rascal !  " 

And  somehow — I  don't  know  how  it  was — instead  of  climbing 
up,  I  pushed  him  backwards  by  mistake,  and  he  went  down 
with  an  awful  crash  into  the  next  garden,  We  knew  it  was  the 
garden  belonging  to  No.  16 — quite  a  large  one  it  is — for  the 
hospital  hasn't  any.  And  when  at  last  I  managed  to  scramble 
on  to  the  wall,  there  was  Tom,  head  downwards,  with  his  feet 
sticking  up  through  the  roof  of  a  green-house,  and  the  rest  of 
him  all  among  the  flower-pots.' 

Raeburn  laughed  heartily. 

'  There  was  a  brute  of  a  cactus  jammed  against  my  face 
too,'  said  Tom.     *  How  I  ever  got  out  alive  was  a  marvel  V 

'  Well,  what  happened  V  asked  Raeburn. 


270  SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR. 

*Wliy,  we  wcut  rouud  to  tell  tl-ie  No,  16  people.  Tom 
waited  outside,  because  he  was  so  frightfully  cut  about,  and  I 
wcut  in,  and  saw  an  old,  old  man — a  sort  of  jMcthusalch — who 
would  ask  my  name,  and  whetlier  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
you.' 

*  What  did  you  say  to  him  V 

'  I  can't  remember,  except  that  I  asked  him  to  let  us  pay 
for  the  glass  by  instalments,  and  ti'ied  to  assure  him  that 
secularists  were  not  in  the  habit  of  smashing  other  people's 
property.  He  was  a  very  jolly  old  man,  and  of  course  he 
wouldn't  let  us  pay  for  the  glass,  thoiigh  he  frightened  me 
dreadfully  by  muttering  that  he  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  glass 
and  the  honesty  combined  cost  him  a  pretty  penny.' 

'  Did  you  ever  see  him  again  1' 

*  Not  to  speak  to,  but  we  always  nodded  to  each  other 
when  we  passed  in  the  square.  I've  not  seen  him  for  ages.  I 
thought  he  must  be  dead.' 

'  He  is  dead,'  said  Raeburn ;  '  and  he  has  left  you  three 
hundred  pounds,  and  he  has  left  me  his  furnished  house,  with 
the  sole  proviso  that  I  live  in  it.' 

'  What  a  brick  !'  cried  Tom  and  Erica,  in  a  breath.  '  Now 
fancy,  if  we  hadn't  played  at  "  King  of  the  Castle  "  that  day  !' 

'  And  if  Erica  had  not  been  such  a  zealous  little  Hepub- 
licanl'  said  Raeburn,  smiling. 

'  Why,  father,  the  very  green-house  will  belong  to  you  ;  and 
such  a  nice  piece  of  garden  !  Oh,  when  can  we  go  and  see  it, 
and  choose  a  nice  room  for  your  study?' 

'  I  will  see  Mr.  Woodward's  executor  to-morrow  morning, 
said  Raeburn.  '  The  sooner  we  move  in  the  better,  for  there 
are  rocks  ahead.' 

'  The  "  we  "  refers  only  to  you  and  I'A'ica,'  said  Aunt  Jean, 
who  had  joined  them.     '  Tom  and  I  shall  of  course  stay  on  here.' 

'Oh,  no,  auntie  !'  cried  Erica,  in  such  genuine  dismay  that 
Aunt  Jean  was  touched. 

*  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  at  all  bound  to  have  us,'  she  said. 
'Now  that  the  worst  of  the  poverty  is  over,  there  is  no 
necessity  for  clubbing  together.' 

'And  after  you  have  shared  all  the  discomforts  with  us, 
you  think  we  should  go  off  in  such  a  dog-in-thc-mangerish 
way  as  that!'  cried  Erica.  ']3esides,  it  really  was  chiefly 
owing  to  Tom,  who  was  the  one  to  get  hurt  into  the  bargain. 
If  you  won't  come,  I  shall ' — she  paused  to  think  of  a  tlu-eat 
terrH)le  enough — 'I  shall  think  again  about  living  with  the 
Fane-Smiths.' 


SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR.  271 

This  led  the  conversation  back  to  Greyshot,  and  they  lin 
gered  so  long  round  the  fire  talking,  that  Raeburn  was  foi 
ouce  uupunctual,  and  kept  an  audience  at  least  ten  minutes 
waiting  for  him. 

No  16  Guilford  Square  proved  to  be  much  better  inside 
than  a  casual  passer  in  the  street  would  have  imagined.  Out- 
side, it  was  certainly  a  grim-looking  house,  but  within  it  was 
roomy  and  comfortable.  The  lower  rooms  were  wainscotted  in 
a  sort  of  yellowish-brown  colour,  the  upper,  wainscotted  in 
olive-green.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  a  wall-paper  in  the 
whole  house,  and  indeed  it  was  hard  to  imagine,  when  once 
inside  it,  that  you  were  in  nineteenth  century  Loudon  at  all. 

Raeburn,  going  over  it  with  Erica  the  following  evening, 
was  a  little  amused  to  think  of  himself  domiciled  in  such  an 
old-world  house.  Mr.  Woodward's  hoiisekecper,  who  was  still 
taking  care  of  the  place,  assured  them  that  one  of  the  leaden 
pipes  outside  bore  the  date  of  the  seventeenth  century,  though 
the  two  last  figures  were  so  illegible  that  they  might  very 
possibly  have  stood  for  1699. 

Erica  was  delighted  with  it  all,  and  went  on  private 
voyages  of  discovery,  while  her  father  talked  to  the  house- 
keeper, taking  stock  of  the  furniture,  imagining  how  she  would 
re-arrange  the  rooms,  and  planning  many  purchases  to  be  made 
with  her  three  hundred  pounds.  She  Avas  singing  to  herself 
for  very  lightness  of  heart  when  her  father  called  her  from 
below.  She  ran  down  again,  checking  her  indination  to  sing 
as  she  remembered  the  old  housekeeper,  who  had  but  recently 
lost  her  master. 

'  I've  rather  set  my  affections  on  this  room,'  said  Piaeburn, 
leading  her  into  what  had  formerly  been  the  dining-room. 

'  The  very  place  where  I  came  in  fear  and  trembling  to 
make  my  confession,'  said  Erica,  laughing.  '  This  would  make 
a  capital  study.' 

'  Yes,  the  good  woman  has  gone  to  fetch,  an  inch  tape  ;  I 
want  to  measure  for  the  book-shelves.  How  many  of  my  books 
could  I  comfortably  liovise  in  here,  do  you  think  ]' 

'  A  good  many.  The  room  is  high,  you  see  ;  and  those  two 
long,  unbroken  walls  woiild  take  several  hundred.  Ah  !  here 
is  the  measuring  tape.     Now  we  can  calculate.' 

They  were  hard  at  work  measuring  when  the  door-bell 
rang,  and  Tom's  voice  was  heard  in  the  passage  asking  for 
Raeburn. 

'  This  way,  Tom  !'  called  Erica.     '  Come  and  help  us.' 

But   a  laughing   reference   to   the   day   of  their  childish 


272  SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR, 

disaster  died  on  her  lips  when  she  caught  sight  of  him,  for  she 
knew  that  something  was  wrong.  Accustomed  all  her  life  to 
live  in  the  region  of  storms,  she  had  learnt  to  a  nicety  the 
tokens  of  rough  weather. 

'  Hazeldinc  Avishes  to  speak  to  you,'  said  Tom,  turning  to 
Haeburn.     '  I  bi'ought  him  round  here  to  save  time.' 

'  Oh !  all  right,'  said  Raeburn,  too  much  absorbed  in 
planning  the  arrangement  of  his  treasures  to  notice  the  un- 
usual gi-aveness  of  Tom's  face.  '  Ask  him  in  here.  Good 
evening,  Hazeldinc.  You  are  the  first  to  see  us  in  our  new 
quarters.' 

Hazeldinc  bore  traces  of  having  lived  from  his  childhood  a 
hard  but  sedentary  life.  He  was  under-sized  and  narroAV- 
chested.  But  the  face  was  a  very  striking  one,  the  forehead 
finely  developed,  the  features  clearly  cut,  and  the  briglit,  dark 
eyes  looking  out  on  the  world  with  an  almost  defiant  honesty, 
a  clearness  bordering  on  hardness. 

Raeburn,  entirely  putting  aside  for  the  time  his  own  affairs, 
and  giving  to  his  visitor  his  Avhole  and  luidivided  attention, 
saw  in  an  instant  that  the  man  was  in  trouble. 

'Out  of  work  again  r  he  asked.     'Anything  gone  wrong]' 

'  No,  sir,'  replied  Hazeldinc  ;  '  but  I  came  round  to  ask  if 
you'd  seen  this  circular  letter.  'Twas  sent  me  this  morning  by 
a  mate  of  mine  who's  lately  gone  to  LongstafF,  and  he  says 
that  this  Pogson  is  sowing  them  broadcast  among  the  hands 
right  through  all  the  workshops  in  the  place,  and  in  all 
England,  too,  for  aught  he  knows.  I  wouldn't  so  much  as 
touch  the  dirty  thing,  only  I  thought  maybe  you  hadn't  heard 
of  it.' 

Without  a  word,  Raeburn  held  out  his  hand  for  the  printed 
letter.  Erica,  standing  at  a  little  distance,  watched  the  faces 
of  the  three  men — Tom,  grave,  yet  somewhat  flushed  ;  Hazel- 
dine,  with  a  scornful  glitter  in  his  dark  eyes ;  her  father  ? 
Last  of  all  she  looked  at  him,  and  looking,  learnt  the  full 
gravity  of  this  new  trouble.  For,  as  he  tead,  Raeburn  grew 
white,  with  the  marble  whiteness  which  means  that  intense 
anger  has  interfered  with  the  action  of  the  heart.  As  he 
hastily  perused  the  lines,  his  eyes  seemed  to  flash  fire  ;  the 
hand  which  still  held  the  measuring-tape  was  clenched  so 
tightly  that  the  knuckle  looked  like  polished  ivory. 

Erica  could  not  ask  what  was  the  matter,  but  she  came 
close  to  him.  When  he  had  finished  reading,  the  first  thing 
his  eye  fell  upon  was  her  face  turned  up  to  his  with  a  muto 
appeal  which,  in  spite   of  the   anxiety  in  it,  made   her   look 


SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR.  273 

almost  like  a  child.  He  shrank  back  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
for  the  letter ;  it  was  so  foul  a  libel  that  it  seemed  intolerable 
to  him  that  his  own  child  should  so  much  as  read  a  line  of  it. 

'  What  is  it  1 '  she  asked  at  length,  speaking  with  difficulty. 

'A  filthy  libel  circulated  by  that  liar  Pogson  !  A  string  of 
lies  invented  by  his  own  evil  brain !  Why  should  I  keep  it 
from  you  1  It  is  impossible  !  The  poisonous  thing  is  sown 
broadcast  through  the  land  !  You  are  of  age — there — read  it, 
and  see  how  vile  a  Christian  can  be  ! ' 

He  was  writhing  under  the  insult,  and  was  too  furious  to 
measure  his  words.  It  was  only  when  he  saw  Erica's  brave  lip 
quiver  that  he  felt  with  remorse  that  he  had  doubled  her  pain. 

She  had  turned  a  little  away  from  him,  ostensibly  to  be 
nearer  to  the  gas,  but  in  reality  that  he  might  not  see  the 
crimson  colour  which  surged  up  into  her  face  as  she  read.  Mr, 
Pogson  was  as  unscrupulous  as  fanatics  invariably  are.  AVith 
a  view  of  warning  the  public  and  inducing  them  to  help  him  in 
crushing  the  false  doctrine  he  abhorred,  he  had  tried  to  stimu- 
late them  by  publishing  a  sketch  of  Raeburn's  pei-sonal 
character  and  life,  drawn  chiefly  from  his  imagination,  or  from 
distorted  and  misquoted  anecdotes  which  had  for  years  been 
bandied  about  among  his  opponents,  losing  nothing  in  the 
process.  Hatred  of  the  man  Luke  Raeburn  was  his  own  great 
stimulus,  and  we  are  apt  to  judge  others  by  ourselves.  The 
publication  of  this  letter  really  seemed  to  him  likely  to  do 
great  good,  and  the  evil  passions  of  hatred  and  bigotry  had  so 
inflamed  his  mind,  that  it  was  perfectly  easy  for  him  to  per- 
suade himself  that  the  statements  were  true.  Indeed,  he  only 
followed  with  the  multitude  to  do  evil  in  this  instance,  for  not 
one  in  a  thousand  took  the  trouble  to  verify  their  facts,^or  even 
their  quotations,  when  speaking  of,  or  quoting,  Raeburn.  The 
libel,  to  put  it  briefly,  represented  Kaeburn  as  a  man  who  had 
broken  every  one  of  the  ten  commandments. 

Erica  read  steadily  on,  though  every  pulse  in  her  beat  at 
double  time.  It  was  long  before  she  finished  it,  for  a  threefold 
chorus  was  going  on  in  her  brain  —  Mr.  Pogson's  libellous 
charges  ;  the  talk  between  her  father  and  Hazeldine,  which 
revealed  all  too  plainly  the  harm  fuready  done  to  the  cause  of 
Christianity  by  this  one  unscrupulous  man ;  and  her  own 
almost  despairing  cry  to  the  Unseen  :  'Oh,  Father!  how  is  he 
ever  to  learn  to  know  Thee,  when  such  things  as  these  are 
done  in  Thy  name  ! ' 

That  little  sheet  of  paper  had  fallen  among  them  like  a 
thunder-bolt. 


274  SLiVNDEK  LEAVES  A  SLUR. 

'  I  have  passed  over  a  great  deal,'  Racburn  was  saying 
when  Erica Jookcd  up  once  more.  *  But  I  shall  not  pass  over 
this  !  Pogsou  shall  poy  dearly  for  it !  Many  thanks,  Hazel- 
dine,  for  bringing  me  word  ;  I  shall  take  steps  about  it  at 
once.' 

He  left  the  room  (Quickly,  and  in  another  minute  they 
heard  the  street  door  close  behind  him. 

'  That  means  an  action  for  libel,'  said  Tom,  knitting  his 
brows.  'And  goodness  only  knows  what  fearful  work  and 
worry  for  the  chieftain,' 

'  But  good  to  the  cause  in  the  long  run  ! '  said  Hazeldine. 
'  And,  as  for  Mr.  Raeburn,  he  only  rises  the  higher  the  more 
they  try  to  crush  him.  He's  like  the  bird  that  rises  out  of  its 
own  ashes — the  phoenix,  don't  they  call  iti' 

Erica  smiled  a  little  at  the  comparison,  but  sadly. 

'  Don't  judge  Christianity  by  this  one  bad  specimen,'  she 
said,  as  she  shook  hands  with  Hazeldine, 

'  How  do  Christians  judge  us.  Miss  Erica  1 '  he  replied, 
sternly. 

'  Then  be  more  just  than  you  think  they  are — as  generous 
as  you  would  have  them  be.' 

'  It's  but  a  working-day  world,  miss,  and  I'm  but  a  working- 
day  man.  I  can't  set  up  to  be  generous  to  them  who  treat  a 
man  as  though  he  was  the  dirt  in  the  street.  And  if  j'ou  will 
excuse  me  mentioning  it,  miss,  I  could  wish  that  this  shameful 
treatment  would  show  to  you  what  a  delusion  it  is  you've  taken 
up  of  late.' 

*  Mr.  Pogson  can  luirt  me  very  much,  but  not  so  fatally  as 
that,'  said  Erica,  as  much  to  herself  as  to  Hazeldine. 

When  he  had  gone  she  picked  up  the  measure  once  more, 
and  turned  to  Tom. 

'  Help  me  just  to  finish  this,  Tom,'  she  said.  '  We  must 
try  to  move  in  as  quickly  as  may  be.' 

Tom  silently  took  the  other  end  of  the  tape,  and  they  set 
to  work  again  ;  but  all  the  enjoyment  in  the  new  house  seemed 
quenched  and  destroyed  by  that  blast  of  calumny.  They  knew 
only  too  well  that  this  was  but  the  beginning  of  troubles. 

liaeburn,  remembering  his  hasty  sjjcech,  called  Erica  iiit(j 
the  study  the  moment  he  heard  her  return.  He  was  still  very 
pale,  and  with  a  curiously  rigid  look  about  his  face. 

*  I  was  right,  you  see,  in  my  prophecy  of  rocks  ahead,' 
he  exclaimed,  throwing  down  liis  pen.  '  You  have  come  home 
to  a  rough  time,  Eric,  and  to  an  over-harassed  father.' 

'The  more  harassed  the  father,  tlic  more  reason  that  he 


SLANDER  LEAVES  A  SLUR.  275 

Bliould  have  a  cliild  to  help  him,'  said  Erica,  sitting  down  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  putting  back  the  masses  (jf  white  hair 
which  hung  over  his  forehead. 

'  Oh,  child  ! '  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  '  if  I  can  but  keep  a 
cool  head  and  a  broad  heart  through  the  years  of  struggle 
before  us  ! ' 

'  Years  ! '  exclaimed  Erica,  dismayed. 

'  This  affair  may  drag  on  almost  indefinitely,  and  a  personal 
strife  is  apt  to  be  lowering.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Erica,  musingly,  '  to  be  libelled  does  set  one's 
back  up  dreadfully,  and  to  be  much  praised  humbles  one  to  the 
very  dust.' 

'  What  will  the  Fane-Smiths  say  to  this  ?  Will  they  believe 
it  of  me  r 

'  I  can't  tell,'  said  Erica,  hesitatingly. 

*  "He  that's  evil  deemed  is  half  hanged,"'  said  Raeburn, 
bitterly.     '  Never  was  there  a  truer  saying  than  that.' 

*  "  Blaw  the  wind  ne'er  so  fast,  it  will  lown  at  the  last,"  ' 
quoted  Erica,  smiling.     '  Equally  true,  padre  mio.^ 

*  Yes,  dear,'  he  said,  quietly,  'but  not  in  my  lifetime.  You 
see  if  I  let  this  pass  the  lies  will  be  circulated,  and  they'll  say 
I  can't  contradict  them.  If  I  bring  an  action  against  the 
fellow  people  will  say  I  do  it  to  flaunt  my  opinions  in  the  face 
of  the  public.  As  your  hero  Livingstone  once  remarked,  "  Isn't 
it  interesting  to  get  blamed  for  everything  1  "  However,  w'e 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  How  about  the  new  house  1  When 
can  we  settle  ml  I  feel  a  longing  for  that  study  with  its 
twenty-two  feet  of  length  for  pacing  ! ' 

'  What  are  your  engagements  ? '  she  asked,  taking  up  a 
book  from  the  table.  '11th,  Newcastle;  12th,  Nottingham; 
13th  and  14th,  Plymouth.  Let  me  see,  that  will  bring  you 
home  on  Monday,  the  15th,  and  will  leave  us  three  clear  days 
to  get  things  straight ;  that  will  do  capitally.' 

'And  you'll  be  siu-e  to  see  that  the  books  are  carefully 
moved,'  said  Raeburn.     '  I  can't  have  the  markers  displaced.' 

Erica  laughed.  Her  father  had  a  habit  of  putting  candle- 
lighters  in  his  books  to  mark  places  for  references,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  book-shelves  all  bristling  with  them  had  long 
been  a  family  joke,  more  especially  as,  if  a  candle-lighter 
happened  to  he  wanted  for  its  proper  purpose,  there  was  never 
one  to  be  found. 

'  I  will  pack  them  myself/  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

BRIAN   AS   AVENGER. 

A  paleness  took  the  poet's  cheek  ; 

'  Must  I  driuk  here  ? '  he  seemed  to  seek 

The  lady's  will  with  utterance  meek. 

'  Ay,  ay,'  she  said,  '  it  so  must  be,' 
(And  this  time  she  spake  cheerfully) 
'Behoves  thee  know  world's  cruelty.' 

E.  B.  Browmxg. 

The  trial  of  Luke  Raebui-n,  on  the  charge  of  having  putilished 
a  blasphemous  libel  in  a  pamphlet  entitled  Bible  •<3firacle>^, 
came  on  in  the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench  early  in  December. 
It  excited  a  great  deal  of  interest.  Some  people  hoped  that 
the  I'evival  of  an  almost  obsolete  law  would  really  help  to 
check  the  spread  of  heterodox  views,  and  praised  Air.  Pogson 
for  his  enei-gy  and  religious  zeal.  These  were  chiefly  well- 
meaning  folks,  not  much  given  to  the  study  of  precedents. 
Some  people  of  a  more  liberal  turn  read  the  pamphlet  in 
question,  and  were  surprised  to  see  that  matter  quite  as 
heterodox  might  be  found  in  many  high-class  reviews  which  lay 
about  on  drawing-room  tables,  the  only  difference  being  that 
the  articles  in  the  reviews  were  written  in  somewhat  ambiguous 
language  by  fashionable  agnostics,  and  that  Bible  Miracles  was 
a  plain,  blunt,  sixpenny  tract,  avowedly  written  for  the  people 
by  the  people's  tribune. 

This  general  interest  and  attention,  once  excited,  gave  rise 
to  the  following  results  :  to  an  indiscriminate  and  wholesale 
condemnation  of  *  that  odious  Raeburn  who  was  always  seeking 
notoriety ;'  to  an  immense  demand  for  Bible  Miracles,  which  in 
three  months  reached  its  fiftieth  thousand;  and  to  a  con- 
siderable crowd  in  Westminster  Hall  on  the  first  day  of  the 
trial,  to  watch  the  entrance  and  exit  of  the  celebrities. 

]*]rica  had  been  all  day  in  the  court.  She  had  written  her 
article  for  the  Daily  Review  in  pencil  during  the  break  for 
luncheon  ;  but,  as  time  wore  on,  the  heated  atmosi)hcre  of  the 
place,  which  was  crammed  to  suffocation,  became  intolerable  to 
her.  She  grew  whiter  and  whiter,  began  to  hear  the  voices 
indistinctly,  and  to  feel  as  if  lier  arms  did  not  belong  to  her. 
It  would  never  do  to  faint  in  court,  and  vexed  as  she  was 
to  leave,  she  took  the  first  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her 
father 


BRIAN  AS  AVENGER.  277 

'1  tUnk  I  must  go,'  she  whispered,  'I  can't  stand  this 
heat.' 

'  Oome  now,  then,"  said  Eacburn,  '  and  I  can  see  you  out. 
This  witness  has  nothing  worth  listening  to.  Take  notes  for 
me,  Tom.     I'll  be  back  directly.' 

They  had  only  just  passed  the  door  leading  into  West- 
minster Hall,  however,  when  Tom  sent  a  messenger  hurrying 
after  them.  An  important  witness  had  that  moment  been 
called,  and  Eaeburn,  who  vras,  as  usual,  conducting  his  own 
case,  could  not  possibly  miss  the  evidence. 

'  I  can  go  alone,'  said  Erica.     '  Don't  stop.' 

But  even  in  his  haste,  Raebum,  glancing  at  the  crowd  of 
curious  faces,  was  thoughtful  for  his  child. 

'  No,'  he  said,  hurriedly.  '  Wait  a  moment,  and  I'll  send 
some  one  to  j'ou.' 

She  would  have  been  wiser  if  she  had  followed  him  back 
into  the  court ;  but,  having  once  escaped  from  the  intolerable 
atmosphei'e,  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  return  to  it.  She 
waited  where  he  had  left  her,  just  within  Westminster  Hall,  at 
the  top  of  the  steps  leading  from  the  entrance  to  the  court. 
The  grandeur  of  the  place,  its  magnificent  proportions,  ter- 
minating in  the  great,  upward  sweep  of  steps,  and  the  mellow 
stained  window,  struck  her  more  than  ever  after  coming  from 
the  crowded  and  inconvenient  little  court  within.  The  vaulted 
roof,  with  its  quaintly-carved  angels,  was  for  the  most  part  dim 
and  shadowy,  but  here  and  there  a  ray  of  sunshine,  slanting  in 
through  the  clerestory  windows,  changed  the  sombre  tones  to  a 
golden  splendour.  Erica,  very  susceptible  to  all  high  in- 
fluences, was  more  conscious  of  the  ennobling  influence  of  light, 
and  space,  and  beauty  than  of  the  curious  eyes  which  were 
watching  her  from  below.  But  all  at  once  her  attention  was 
drawn  to  a  group  of  men  who  stood  near  her,  and  her  thoughts 
were  suddenly  brought  back  to  the  hard,  everyday  world,  from 
which  for  a  brief  moment  she  had  escaped.  With  a  quick, 
apprehensive  glance,  she  noted  that  among  them  was  a  certain 
Sir  Algernon  Wyte,  a  man  who  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  in- 
sulting her  father. 

'Did  you  see  the  fellow?'  said  one  of  the  group.  'He 
came  to  the  door  just  now.' 

'  And  left  his  fair  daughter  to  be  a  spectacle  to  men  and 
angels?'  said  Sir  Algernon. 

Then  followed  words  so  monstrous,  so  intolerable,  that 
Erica,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  discourtesies,  broke  down  al- 
together.    It  was  so  heartless,  so  cruelly  false,  and  she  was  so 


278  BRIAN  AS  AVENGER. 

perfectly  defenceless !  A  wave  of  burning  colour  swept  over  her 
face.  If  she  could  but  have  gone  away — have  hidden  herself 
from  those  cruel  eyes.  But  her  knees  trembled  so  fearfully 
that,  had  she  tried  to  move,  she  must  have  fallen.  Sick  and 
giddy,  the  flight  of  steps  looked  to  her  like  a  precipice.  She 
could  only  lean  for  support  against  the  gi'ey-stone  mouldings  of 
the  doorway,  while  tears,  which  for  once  she  could  not  re- 
strain, rushed  to  her  eyes.  Oh  !  if  Tom  or  the  professor,  or 
some  one  would  but  come  tc  her  !  Such  moments  as  those  are 
not  measured  by  earthly  time  ;  the  misery  seemed  to  her  age- 
long, though  it  was  in  reality  brief  enough,  for  Brian,  coming 
into  Westminster  Hall,  had  actually  heard  Sir  Algernon's 
shameful  slander,  and  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  was 
beside  her  almost  immediately. 

The  sight  of  his  face  checked  her  tears.  It  positively 
frightened  her  by  its  restrained  yet  intense  passion. 

*  Miss  Ilaeburn,'  ho  said,  in  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  plainly 
heard  by  the  group  below,  '  this  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you.  Let 
me  take  you  home.' 

He  spoke  much  more  formally  than  was  his  wont,  yet  in 
his  actions  he  used  a  sort  of  authority,  drawing  her  hand 
within  his  arm,  leading  her  rapidly  through  the  crowd,  which 
opened  before  them.  For  that  one  bitter-sweet  moment  she 
belonged  to  him.  He  was  her  sole,  and  therefore  her  rigiitful, 
protector.  A  minute  more,  and  they  stood  in  I'alace  Yard. 
He  hastily  called  a  hansom. 

In  the  pause  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  would  have  spoken 
her  thanks  ;  but  something  in  his  manner  checked  her.  He 
had  treated  her  so  exactly  as  if  she  belonged  to  him,  that  to 
thank  him  seemed  almost  as  absurd  as  it  would  have  done 
to  thank  her  father.  Then  a  sudden  fear  made  her  say  in- 
stead, 

'  Are  you  coming  home  1 ' 

'  I  will  come  to  see  that  you  are  safely  back  presently,'  he 
said,  in  a  voice  unlike  his  own.  'But  I  must  see  that  man 
first.' 

'  No,  no,'  she  said,  beginning  to  tremble  again.  '  Don  t  go 
back.     Please,  please  don't  go  ! ' 

'I  must,'  he  said,  putting  her  into  the  hansom.  Then, 
speaking  very  gently — '  Don't  be  afraid  ;  I  will  be  with  you 
almost  directly.' 

He  closed  the  doors,  gave  the  address  to  the  drivci",  and 
turned  away. 

Erica  was  conscious  of  a  vacjue  relief  as  the  frcsli  winter 


BUIAN  AS  AVENGER.  279 

wind  blew  upon  her.  She  shut  her  eyes,  that  she  might  not 
see  the  passers-by,  only  longing  to  get  away — right  away, 
somewhere  beyond  the  reach  of  staring  eyes  and  cruel  tongues. 
One  evening,  ;/ears  ago,  she  remembered  coming  out  of  St. 
James's  Hall  with  Tom,  and  having  heard  a  woman  in  Regent 
Street  insulted  in  precisely  the  same  language  that  had  been 
used  to  her  to-day.  She  remembered  how  the  shrill,  pas- 
sionate cry  had  rung  down  the  street—'  How  dare  you  insult 
me  ! '  And  remembered,  too,  how  she  had  wondered  wdiether 
perfect  innocenca  would  have  been  able  to  give  that  retort. 
She  knew  now  that  her  surmise  had  been  correct.  The  insult 
had  struck  her  dumb  for  the  time.  Even  now",  as  the  words 
returned  to  her  with  a  pain  intolerable,  her  teai's  rained  down. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  for  once  she  could  no  more  help  crying 
than  she  could  have  helped  bleeding  when  cut. 

Then  once  more  her  thoughts  turned  to  Brian  with  a 
warmth  of  gratitude  which  in  itself  relieved  her.  He  w^as  a 
man  worth  knowing,  a  friend  worth  having.  Yet  how  awful 
his  face  had  looked  as  he  came  towards  her.  Only  once  in  her 
whole  life  had  she  seen  such  a  look  on  a  man's  face.  She  had 
seen  it  in  her  childhood  on  her  father's  face,  Avhen  he  had  first 
heard  of  a  shameful  libel  which  affected  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him.  She  had  been  far  too  young  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  it,  but  she  well  remembered  that  silent,  consuming 
wrath  ;  she  remembered  running  away  by  herself  with  the  sort 
of  half-fearful  delight  of  a  child's  new  discovery — 'Now  I  know 
how  men  look  when  they  kill/' 

All  at  once,  in  the  light  of  that  old  recollection,  the  truth 
flashed  upon  her.  She  smiled  through  her  tears,  a  soft  glow 
stole  over  her  face,  a  warmth  found  its  way  to  her  aching 
heart.  For  at  last  the  love  of  seven  years  had  found  its  way 
to  her  ! 

She  felt  all  in  a  glad  tumult  as  that  perception  came  to 
her.  It  had,  in  truth,  been  an  afternoon  of  revelations  !  She 
had  never  until  now  in  the  least  understood  Brian's  character, 
never  in  the  least  appreciated  him.  And  as  to  dreaming  that 
his  friendship  had  been  love  from  the  very  first,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her. 

The  revelation  did  not  bring  her  unalloyed  happiness,  for 
there  came  a  sharp  pang  as  she  recollected  what  he  had  gone 
back  to  do.  What  if  he  should  get  into  trouble  on  her  behalf? 
.what  if  he  should  be  hurf?  Accustomed  always  to  fear  for  her 
father  actual  physical  injury,  her  thoughts  at  once  flew  to  the 
same  danger  for  Brian.     But,  however  sick  with  anxiety,  she 


280  BRIAN  AS  AVENGER. 

was  obliged,  on  leaving  home,  to  try  and  copy  out  her  article, 
which  must  be  in  type  and  upon  thousands  of  breakfast-tables 
by  the  next  morning,  whether  her  heart  ached  or  not,  whether 
her  life  were  rough  or  smooth. 

In  the  meantime,  Brian,  having  watched  her  cab  drive  off, 
turned  back  into  Westminster  Hall.  He  could  see  nothing  but 
the  one  vision  which  filled  his  brain — the  face  of  the  girl  he 
loved,  a  lovely,  pure  face  suffused  Avith  tears.  He  could  hear 
nothing  but  that  intolerable  slander  which  filled  his  hcai-t  with 
a  burning,  raging  indignation.  Straight  as  an  arrow,  and  as  if 
by  instinct,  he  made  his  way  to  the  place  whei'e  Sir  Algernon 
and  three  or  four  companions  were  pacing  to  and  fro.  He 
confronted  them  bringing  their  walk  to  an  enforced  pause. 

*  I  am  here  to  demand  an  apology  for  the  words  you  spoke 
just  now  about  Miss  Eaeburn,'  he  said,  speaking  in  a  voice 
which  was  none  the  less  impressive  because  it  trembled 
slightly,  as  with  a  wrath  restrained  only  by  a  great  effort. 

Sir  Algernon,  a  florid  light-haired  man  of  about  thirty, 
coolly  stared  at  him  for  a  moment. 

'  Who  may  you  be,  sir,  who  take  up  the  cudgels  so  wamily 
in  Miss  Raeburn's  defence  V 

'  A  man  who  will  not  hear  a  defenceless  girl  insulted,'  said 
Brian,  his  voice  rising.     'Apologise  !' 

'Defenceless  girl!'  repeated  the  other,  in  a  tone  so  insuf- 
ferable that  Brian's  passion  leapt  up  like  wild-fire. 

'You  vile  blackguard  !'  he  criecl,  '  what  you  said  was  an  in- 
fernal lie  ?  and  if  you  don  t  retract  it  this  moment,  I'll  thrash 
you  within  an  inch  of  your  life  !' 

Sir  x\lgernon  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  'Pon  my  life  ! '  he  exclaimed,  tv;rning  to  one  of  his  com- 
panions, '  if  I'd  known  that  Miss  Raeburn ' 

But  the  sentence  was  never  ended,  for  with  a  look  of  fuiy 
Brian  sprang  at  him,  seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  and 
holding  him  like  a  vice  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  brought 
down  his  cane  upon  the  slanderer's  shoulders  with  such  energy 
that  the  wretch  writhed  beneath  it. 

The  onlookers  being  gentlemen,  and  fully  aware  that  Sir 
Algernon  deserved  all  he  was  getting,  stood  by  not  offering  to 
interfere,  perhaps  in  their  hearts  rather  sympathising  with  tlie 
avenger,  whose  righteous  indignation  had  about  it  a  manliness 
that  appealed  to  them.  Presently  Sir  Algernon  ceased  to  kick, 
his  struggles  grew  fainter.  Brian  let  his  right  arm  pause  then, 
and  with  his  left  flung  his  foe  into  the  corner  as  if  he  had  been 
a  mere  chattel. 


BRIAN  AS  AVENGER.  281 

'There!'  he  exclaimed,  •summons  me  for  that  when  you 
please  !'  And,  handing  his  card  to  one  of  Sir  Algernon's  com- 
panions, he  strode  out  of  the  hall. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Guilford  Square  he  was  almost  him- 
self again,  a  little  paler  than  usual,  but  outwardly  quite  calm. 
He  went  at  once  to  No.  1 6.  The  Raeburns  had  now  been  settled 
in  their  new  quarters  for  some  weeks,  and  the  house  was  familiar 
enough  to  him  ;  he  went  up  to  the  drawing-room,  or  as  it  was 
usually  called  the  green-room.  The  gas  was  not  lighted,  but  a 
little  reading-lamp  stood  upon  a  table  in  one  of  the  windows, 
and  the  firelight  made  the  panelled  walls  shine  here  and 
there,  though  the  corners  and  recesses  were  all  in  dusky 
shadow.  Erica  had  made  this  the  most  home-like  room  in  the 
house ;  it  had  the  most  beguiling  easy  chairs,  it  had  all  Mr. 
Woodward's  best  pictures,  it  had  fascinating  little  tables,  and  a 
tempting  set  of  books.  There  was  something  in  the  sight  of 
the  familiar  room  which  made  Brian's  wrath  flame  up  once 
more.  Erica's  guileless  life  seemed  to  rise  before  him — the 
years  of  patient  study,  the  beautiful  filial  love,  the  pathetic  en- 
deavour to  restrain  her  child-like  impatience  of  conventionalities, 
lest  scandal-mongers  should  have  even  a  shadow  of  excuse  for 
slandering  Luke  Raeburn's  daughter.  The  biiitality  of  the 
insult  struck  him  more  than  ever.  Erica,  glancing  up  from 
her  writing-table,  saw  that  his  face  again  bore  that  look  of  in- 
tolerable pain  which  had  so  greatly  startled  her  in  Westminster 
HaU. 

She  had  more  than  half  dreaded  his  arrival,  had  been 
wondering  how  they  should  meet  after  the  strange  re- 
velation of  the  afternoon,  had  been  thinking  of  the  most  trite 
and  commonplace  remark  with  which  she  might  greet  him. 
But  when  it  actually  came  to  the  point  she  could  not  say 
a  word,  only  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  anxious  ques- 
tioning. 

'  It  is  all  right,'  he  said,  answering  the  mute  question,  a 
gi-eat  joy  thrilling  him  as  he  saw  that  she  had  been  anxious 
about  him.     '  You  should  not  have  been  afraid.' 

'  I  couldn't  help  it,'  she  said,  colouring,  '  he  is  such  a 
hateful  man  !  a  man  who  might  do  anything !  Tell  me  what 
happened.' 

'  I  gave  him  a  thrashing  which  he'll  not  soon  forget,'  said 
Brian.     'But  don't  let  us  speak  of  him  any  more.' 

*  Perhaps  he'll  summons  you  1'  said  Erica. 

'  He  won't  dare  to.     He  knows  that  he  deserved  it.     What 
are  you  writing]     You  ought  to  be  resting.' 
13 


282  BRIAN  AS  AVENGER. 

*  Only  copying  out  my  article.  The  boy  will  be  here  before 
long.' 

*  I  am  your  doctor/  he  said,  feeling  her  pulse,  and  again 
assuming  his  authoritative  manner ;  '  I  shall  order  you  to  rest 
on  your  couch  at  once.  I  will  copy  this  for  you.  What  is 
it  onr 

'  Cremat'on,'  said  Ei-ica,  smiling  a  little.  'A  nice  funereal 
subject  for  a  dreary  day  !  Generally,  if  I'm  in  wild  spirits,  Mr. 
Bircham  sends  me  the  very  gloomiest  subject  to  write  on, 
and,  if  I'm  particularly  blue,  he  asks  for  a  bright,  lively 
article.' 

*  Oh  !  he  tells  you  Avhat  to  write  on?' 

'  Yes ;  did  you  think  I  had  the  luxury  of  choosing  for 
myself]  Every  day,  about  eleven  o'clock,  a  small  boy  brings 
me  my  fate  on  a  slip  of  paper.  Let  me  dictate  this  to  you. 
I'm  sure  you  can't  read  that  pencilled  scribble.' 

'  Yes,  I  can,'  said  Brian.     '  You  go  and  rest.' 

She  obeyed  him,  thankful  enough  to  liave  a  moment's 
pause  in  which  to  think  out  the  questions  that  came  crowding 
into  her  mind.  She  hardly  dared  to  think  what  Brian  might 
be  to  her,  for  just  now  she  needed  him  so  sorely  as  friend  and 
adviser,  that  to  admit  that  other  perception,  which  made  her 
feel  shy  and  consti'ained  with  him,  would  have  left  her  still  in 
her  isolation.  After  all,  he  was  a  seven  years'  friend,  no  mere 
acquaintance,  but  an  actual  friend  to  whom  she  was  her  un- 
resei*ved  and  perfectly  natural  self. 

'  Brian,'  she  said,  presently,  when  he  had  finished  her 
copying,  '  you  don't  think  I'm  bound  to  tell  my  father  about 
this  afternoon,  do  jonV 

A  burning,  painful  blush,  the  sort  of  blush  that  she  never 
ought  to  have  known,  never  could  have  known  but  for  that 
shameful  slander,  spread  over  her  face  and  neck  as  she  spoke. 

'  Perhaps  not,'  said  Brian,  '  since  the  man  has  been  properly 
punished.' 

*  I  think — I  hope  it  need  never  get  round  to  him  in  any 
other  way,'  said  Erica.  '  He  would  be  so  fearfully  angry,  and 
just  now  scarcely  a  day  passes  without  bringing  him  some  fresh 
worry.' 

*  When  will  the  Pogson  affair  come  on  V 

'  Oh !  I  don't  know.     Not  just  yet,  I'm  afraid.     Things  in 
the  legal  world  always  move  at  the  rate  of  a  fly  in  a  glue-pot.' 
'  What  sort  of  man  is  Mr.  Pogson  1 ' 

*  He  was  in  court  to-day,  a  little,  sleek,  narrow-headed  man, 
with  cold,  grey  eyes.     I  have  been  trying  to  put  my.self  in  hia 


BRIAN  AS  AVENGER.  283 

place,  and  realise  the  view  he  takes  of  things ;  but  it  is  very, 
very  hard.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  live  in  this  house 
and  see  the  awful  harm  his  intolerance  is  bringing  about.' 

'  In  what  way  did  you  specially  meanl' 

'  Oh  !  in  a  thousand  ways.  It  is  bringing  Christianity  into 
discredit,  it  is  making  them  more  bitter  against  it,  and  wlio  can 
wonder !  It  is  bringing  hundreds  of  men  to  atheism,  it  is 
enormously  increasing  the  demand  for  all  my  father's  books, 
and  already  even  in  these  few  months  it  has  doubled  the  sale 
of  the  Idol-Breaher.  In  old  times  that  would  have  been  my 
consolation.  Oh !  it  is  heart-breaking  to  see  how  religious 
people  injure  their  own  cause  !  Surely  they  might  have  learnt 
by  this  time  that  punishment  for  opinion  is  never  right,  that 
it  brings  only  bitterness,  and  misery,  and  more  error  !  How  is 
one  to  believe  that  this  is  right — that  God  means  all  this 
bigotry  and  injustice  to  go  on  producing  evill' 

'  Siu'ely  it  will  teach  the  sharp  lesson  that  all  pain  teaches,' 
said  Brian.  '  We  Christians  have  broken  His  order,  have  lost 
the  true  idea  of  brotherly  love,  and  from  this  arises  pain  and 
evil,  which  at  last,  when  it  touches  our  own  selfish  natures, 
will  rouse  us,  wake  us  up  sharply,  drive  us  back  of  necessity 
to  the  true  Christ-following.  Then  persecution  and  injustice 
will  die.  But  we  are  so  terribly  asleep  that  the  evil  must  grow 
desperate  before  we  become  conscious  of  it.  It  seems  to  me 
that  bigotry  has  at  least  one  mortal  foe,  though.  You  are 
alvfays  here  ;  you  must  show  them  by  your  life  what  the  Father 
is — that  is  being  a  Christian  !' 

'  I  know,'  said  Erica,  a  look  of  almost  passionate  longing 
dawning  in  her  eyes.  '  Oh  !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  crammed 
full  of  faults  that  hinder  one  from  serving !  And  all  these  * 
worries  do  try  one's  temper  fearfully  !  If  they  had  but  a 
Donovan  to  live  with  them  now  !  But,  as  for  me,  I  can't  do 
much,  except  love  them.' 

Brian  loved  her  too  truly  to  speak  words  of  praise  and  com- 
mendation at  such  a  time. 

'  Is  not  the  love  the  crux  of  the  whole  V  he  said, 
quietly. 

'  I  suppose  it  is,'  said  Erica,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her 
forehead  in  the  way  she  always  did  when  anything  perplexed  her. 
*  But  just  at  present  my  life  is  a  sort  of  fugue  on  Browning's 

'  "  How  very  hard  it  is  to  be  a  Christian  ! " 

Sometimes  I  can't  help  laughing  to  think  that  there  was  a  time 
when  I  thought  the  teaching  of  Clirist  unpractical  \     Do  you 


284  BRIAN  AS  AVEXQEfl. 

mind  ringing  the  bell  for  mc ;  the  others  will  be  in  directly,  and 
will  be  glad  of  tea  after  that  headachy  place.' 

'  Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  for  you  !'  asked  Brian. 

'  Yes,  one  thing  more — help  me  to  remember  the  levers  of 
the  second  order.  It's  my  physiology  class  to-night,  and  I  feel, 
as  Tom  would  express  it,  like  a  "  boiled  owl."' 

'  Let  me  take  the  class  for  you.' 

'  Oh,  no,  thank  you,'  she  replied,  '  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  the 
world.' 

It  was  not  till  Brian  had  left  that  Erica,  taking  up  the 
article  on  cremation,  was  struck  by  some  resemblance  in  the 
handwriting.  She  must  have  seen  Brian's  writing  before,  but 
only  this  afternoon  did  she  make  that  fresh  discovery.  Crossing 
the  room  she  took  from  one  of  the  book-shelves  a  dark-blue 
morocco  volume,  and  compared  the  writing  on  the  fly-leaf  with 
her  MS. 

'From  another  admirer  of  HiaivatJia'  There  could  be  no 
doubt  that  Brian  had  written  that.  Had  he  cared  for  her  so 
long?  Had  he  indeed  loved  her  all  these  years'?  She  was 
interrupted  by  the  maid  bringing  in  the  tea. 

'  Mr.  Bircham's  boy  is  here,  miss,  and  if  you  please  can  cook 
speak  to  you  a  minute  V 

Erica  put  down  the  Longfellow  and  rolled  up  '  Cremation.' 

'I'm  sure  she's  going  to  give  warning!'  she  thought  to 
herself.  '  What  a  day  to  choose  for  it !  That's  what  I  call  an 
anti-climax.' 

Her  forebodings  proved  all  too  true.  In  a  minute  more  in 
walked  the  cook,  with  the  sort  of  conscious  dignity  of  bearing 
which  means — '  I  am  no  longer  in  your  service.' 

*  If  you  please,  miss,  I  wish  to  leave  this  day  month.' 

•  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  you,'  said  Erica ;  '  wdiat  are  your 
reasons  for  leaving  ]' 

'  I've  not  been  used,  miss,  to  families  as  is  in  the  law- 
courts.  I've  been  used  to  the  best  "West-end  private 
families.' 

'I  don't  see  how  it  can  affect  you,'  said  Erica,  feeling,  in 
spite  of  her  annoyance,  much  inclined  to  laugh. 

'  Indeed,  miss,  and  it  do  !  There's  not  a  tradesmen's  boy  but 
has  his  joke  or  his  word  about  Mr.  Raebum,'  said  the  cook,  in 
an  injured  voice.  'And  last  Sunday,  when  I  went  to  the 
minister  to  show  my  liues,  lie  said  a  member  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  take  service  with  a  hatheist,  and  that  I  was  in 
an  'ouse  of  'ell.  Those  was  his  very  words,  miss,  an  'ouse 
of  'ell,  he  said.' 


BRIAN  AS  AVENGER.  285 

*  Then  it  was  exceedingly  impertinent  of  him,'  said  Erica, 
'  for  he  knew  nothing  wliatever  about  it.' 

After  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  accept  the 
resignation,  and  to  begin  once  more  the  weary  search  for  that 
rara  avis,  '  A  good  plain  cook.' 

Her  interview  had  only  just  ended  when  she  heard  the 
front  door  open.  She  listened  intently,  but  apparently  it  was 
only  Tom ;  he  came  upstairs  singing  a  refrain  with  which  just 
then  she  quite  agreed  : — 

L  A  "W,~law 

Ehymes  very  well  with  jaw, 
If  you're  fond  of  litigation, 
And  sweet  procrastination, 
Latin  and  botheration, 
I  advise  you  to  go  to  law.' 

'Hullo!'  he  exclaimed,  *  So  you  did  get  home  all  right  1 
I  like  your  way  of  acting  Casabianca  !  The  chieftain  sent 
me  tearing  out  after  you,  and  when  I  got  there,  you  had 
vanished  !' 

'  Brian  came  up  just  then,'  said  Erica,  '  and  I  thought  it 
better  not  to  wait.     Oh,  here  comes  father.' 

Eaeburn  entered  as  she  spoke.  No  one  who  saw  him  would 
have  guessed  that  he  was  an  over-worked,  over-worried  man, 
for  his  face  was  a  singularly  peaceful  one,  serene  with  the 
serenity  of  a  strong  nature  convinced  of  its  own  integrity. 

'Got  some  tea  for  us,  Eric?'  he  asked,  throwing  himself 
back  in  a  chair  beside  the  fire.' 

Some  shade  of  trouble  in  her  face,  invisible  to  any  eye  but 
that  of  a  pai*ent,  made  him  watch  her  intently,  whilo  a  new 
hope  which  made  his  heart  beat  more  quickly  sprang  np 
within  him.  Christians  had  not  shown  up  well  that  day ; 
prosecuting  and  persecuting  Christians  are  the  most  repulsive 
beings  on  earth !  Did  she  begin  to  feel  a  flaw  in  the  systeix* 
she  had  professed  belief  in  1  Might  she  by  this  injustice  com?' 
to  realise  that  she  had  unconsciously  cheated  herself  into  s 
belief?  If  such  tilings  might  win  her  back  to  him,  might 
bridge  over  that  miserable  gvilf  between  them,  then  welcomf 
any  trouble,  any  persecution,  welcome  even  ruin  itself ! 

But  had  he  been  able  to  see  into  Erica's  heart,  he  would 
have  learnt  that  the  grief  which  had  left  its  traces  on  her  face 
was  the  grief  of  knowing  that  such  days  as  these  strengthened 
and  confirmed  him  in  his  atheism.  Erica  was  indeed  ever 
confronted  with  one  of  the  most  baflBing  of  all  baffling 
mysteries.     How  was  it  that  a  man  of  such  grand  capacities, 


286  FIESOLE. 

a  man  with  so  many  noble  qualities,  yet  remained  in  the 
darkness  1  One  day  she  put  that  question  sadly  enough  to 
Charles  Osmond. 

'  Not  darkness,  child,  none  of  your  honest  Secularists  who 
live  up  to  their  creed  are  in  darkness,'  he  replied.  '  However 
mistakenly,  they  do  try  to  promote  what  they  consider  the 
general  good.  Were  you  in  such  absolute  blackness  before 
last  summer]' 

*  There  was  the  love  of  Humanity,'  said  Erica,  musingly. 

'  Yes,  and  what  is  that  but  a  ray  of  the  light  of  life 
promised  to  all  who,  to  any  extent,  follow  Christ  1  It  is  only 
the  absolutely  selfish  who  are  in  the  black  shadow.  Tlie 
honest  atheist  is  in  the  penumbra,  and  in  his  twilight  sees  a 
little  bit  of  the  true  sun,  though  he  calls  it  Humanity  instead 
of  Christ.' 

'  Oh,  if  the  shadows  would  but  go  !'  exclaimed  Erica. 

'Would!'  he  said,  laughing  gently.  'Why,  child,  they 
will,  they  must  !' 

'  But  now,  I  mean  !  "  Here  down,"  as  Mazzini  would  have 
said.' 

'  You  were  ever  an  impatient  little  mortal.' 

'  How  can  one  help  being  impatient  for  this,'  she  said,  with 
a  quick  sigh. 

'  That  is  what  I  used  to  say  myself  seven  years  ago  over 
you,'  he  said,  smiling.  '  But  I  learnt  that  the  Father  knew 
best,  and  that  if  we  would  work  with  Him  we  must  wait  with 
Him  too.  You  mustn't  waste  your  strength  in  impatience, 
child,  you  need  every  bit  of  it  for  the  life  before  you.' 

But  patience  did  not  come  by  nature  to  a  RaebuiTi,  and 
Erica  did  not  gain  it  in  a  day  even  by  grace. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

FIESOLE. 

And  yet,  because  I  love  thee,  I  obtain 
From  that  same  love  this  vindicating  grace. 
To  live  on  still  in  love,  and  yet  in  vain, — 
To  bless  thee,  yet  renounce  thoe  to  thy  face. 

E.  B.  Brownina. 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  al)out  the  monotony  of  un- 
alloyed pleasure,  and  the  necessity  of  sluidows  and  dark  places 
in  life  as  well  as  in  pictured  landscape.     And  certainly  there 


FIESOLE.  287 

can  be  but  few,  in  this  world  of  stem  realities,  who  would 
dispute  the  fact  that  pleasure  is  doubled  by  its  contrast  with 
preceding  pain.  Perhaps  it  was  the  vividness  of  this  contrast 
that  made  Raeburn  and  Erica  enjoy,  with  a  perfect  rapture  of 
enjoyment,  a  beautiful  view  and  a  beautiful  spring  day  in  Italy. 
Behind  them  lay  a  very  sombre  past ;  they  had  escaped  for  a 
brief  moment  from  the  atmosphere  of  strife,  from  the  world  of 
controversy,  from  the  scorching  breath  of  slander,  from  the 
balefvd  influences  of  persecution  and  injustice.  Before  them 
lay  the  fairest  of  all  the  cities  of  Italy.  They  were  sitting  in 
the  Boboli  gardens,  and  from  wooded  heights  looked  down 
upon  that  loveliest  of  Italian  valleys. 

The  silver  Arno  wound  its  way  between  the  green  encircling 
hills  ;  then  between  the  old  houses  of  Florence,  its  waters 
spanned  now  by  a  light  suspension-bridge — token  of  modem 
times — now  by  old  brown  arches  strengthened  and  restored, 
now  by  the  most  venerable-looking  of  all  the  bridges,  the  Ponte 
Vecchio,  with  its  double  row  of  little  shops.  Into  the  cloudless 
bine  sky  rose  the  pinnacles  of  Santa  Croce,  the  domes  of  San 
Spirito,  of  the  Baptistery,  of  the  Cathedral ;  sharply  defined  in 
the  clear  atmosphere  were  the  airy,  light  Campanile  of  Giotto, 
the  more  slender  brown  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  the 
spire  of  Santa  Maria  Novella.  Northward,  beyond  the  city, 
rose  the  heights  of  Fiesole,  and  to  the  east  the  green  hills, 
dotted  all  over  with  white  houses,  swept  away  into  the  un- 
seen distance. 

Raeburn  had  been  selected  as  the  English  delegate  to  attend 
a  certain  political  gathering  held  that  year  at  Florence.  He 
had  at  first  hesitated  to  accept  the  post,  for  his  work  at  home 
had  enormously  increased ;  but  the  long  months  of  wearing 
anxiety  had  so  told  iipon  him,  that  his  friends  had  at  length 
persuaded  him  to  go,  fully  aware  that  the  only  chance  of 
inducing  him  to  take  any  rest  was  to  get  him  out  of  the 
region  of  work. 

The  '  Miracles '  trial  was  at  length  over,  but  Mr.  Pogson  had 
not  obtained  the  desire  of  his  heart,  namely,  the  imprisonment 
and  fining  of  Luke  Raeburn.  The  only  results  of  the  trial 
were  the  extensive  advertisement  of  the  pamphlet  in  question, 
a  great  increase  of  bitterness  on  each  side,  and  a  great  waste  of 
money.  Erica's  sole  consolation  lay  in  the  fact  that  a  few  of 
the  more  liberal  thinkers  were  beginning  to  see  the  evil,  and  to 
agitate  for  a  repeal  of  the  Blasphemy  Laws.  As  for  the  action 
for  libel,  there  was  no  chance  of  its  coming  on  before  June, 
and  in  the  meantime  Mr.  Pogson's  letter  was  obtaining  a  wider 


288  nESOLK. 

circulation,  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  Luke  Racburn  was  just 
at  that  time  the  best-abused  man  in  all  England. 

There  bad  been  a  long  silence  between  the  father  and 
daughter,  who  understood  each  other  far  too  well  to  need  many 
words  at  such  a  time ;  bi;t  at  length  a  sudden  ejaculation  from 
Kaeburn  made  Erica  turn  her  eyes  from  Fiesole  to  the  shady 
walk  in  the  gardens  down  which  he  was  looking. 

'  Does  any  Italian  walk  at  such  a  pace  V  he  exclaimed. 
'  That  must  surely  be  Brian  Osmond,  or  his  double  in  the  shape 
of  an  English  tourist.' 

'  Oh,  impossible  ! '  said  Erica,  colouring  a  little,  and  looking 
intently  at  the  pedestrian,  who  was  still  at  some  little  distance. 

'  But  it  is,'  said  Raeburn — *  height,  way  of  walking,  every- 
thing !  My  dear  Eric,  don't  tell  me  I  can't  recognise  the  man 
who  saved  my  life.     I  should  know  him  a  mile  off ! ' 

*  What  can  have  brought  him  here  1 '  said  Erica,  a  certain 
joyous  tumult  in  her  heart  checked  by  the  dread  of  evil 
tidings — a  dread  which  was  but  natural  to  one  who  had  lived 
her  life. 

*  Come  and  meet  him,'  said  Raebura.  '  Ha,  Brian,  I  recog- 
nised you  ever  so  far  off,  and  couldn't  persuade  this  child  of 
your  identity.' 

Brian,  a  little  flushed  with  quick  walking,  looked  up  into 
Erica's  face  searchingly,  and  was  satisfied  with  what  he  read 
there — satisfied  with  the  soft  glow  of  colour  that  came  to  her 
cheeks,  and  with  the  bright  look  of  happiness  that  came  into 
her  eyes,  which,  as  a  rule,  were  grave,  and  when  in  repose  even 
sad  in  expression. 

*  I  owe  this  to  a  most  considerate  patient,  who  thought  fit 
to  be  taken  ill  at  Genoa  and  to  telegraph  for  me,'  he  said,  in 
explanation ;  '  and  being  in  Italy,  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
take  my  yearly  outing  now.' 

'  Capital  idea  ! '  said  Racburn.  '  You  are  the  very  man  we 
wanted.  What  with  meetings  and  interviews,  I  don't  get  much 
peace  even  here,  and  Erica  is  much  in  need  of  an  escort  some- 
times.    How  did  you  find  us]' 

'  They  told  me  at  the  hotel  that  I  should  probably  find  you 
here,  though,  if  I  had  known  what  a  wilderness  of  a  place  it 
is  I  should  have  been  rather  hopeless.' 

Erica  left  most  of  the  talking  to  her  father;  just  then  she 
felt  no  wish  to  put  a  single  thought  into  words.  She  wanted 
only  to  enjoy  the  blissful  dream-like  happiness,  which  was  so 
new,  and  rare,  and  wonderful  that  it  brought  with  it  the  feeling 
that  any  very   definite  thought  or   word  must  bring  it  to  an 


FIESOLB.  289 

end.  Perfect  harmony  with  your  surroundings  !  Yes,  that 
was  indeed  a  very  true  definition  of  happiness ;  and  of  late 
the  surroundings  had  been  so  grim  and  stormy  !  She  seemed 
to  tread  upon  air  as  they  roamed  about  the  lovely  walks.  The 
long,  green  vistas  were  to  her  a  veritable  paradise.  Her  father 
looked  so  happy,  too,  and  had  so  entirely  shaken  off'  his  cares, 
and  Brian,  who  was  usually  rather  silent,  seemed  to-day  a 
perfect  fountain  of  talk. 

Since  that  December  day  in  Westminster  Hall,  a  great 
change  had  come  over  Erica.  Not  a  soul  besides  Brian  and 
herself  knew  anything  about  the  scene  with  Sir  Algernon  Wyte. 
Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them  since  upon  the  subject ; 
but  perhaps,  because  of  the  silence,  that  day  was  all  the  more 
in  the  thoughts  of  each.  The  revelation  of  Brian's  love 
revealed  also  to  Erica  much  in  his  character  which  had 
hitherto  perplexed  her,  simply  because  she  had  not  seen  it 
in  the  true  light.  There  had  always  been  about  him  a  wistful- 
ness  bordering  on  sadness,  which  had  sometimes  almost  angered 
her.  For  so  little  do  even  intimate  friends  know  each  other, 
that  lives,  which  seem  all  peaceful  and  fuU  of  everything 
calculated  to  bring  happiness,  are  often  the  ones  Avhich  are 
preyed  upon  by  some  gi-ievous  trouble  or  anxiety  unknown  to 
any  outsider.  If  he  had  indeed  loved  her  all  those  seven 
years,  he  must  have  suff'ered  fearfully.  What  the  suffering 
had  been,  Erica  could,  from  her  present  position,  understand 
well  enough.  The  thought  of  it  touched  her  inexpressibly, 
seemed  to  her,  as  indeed  it  was,  the  shadow  of  that  Divine 
Love  which  had  loved  her  eternally — had  waited  for  her 
through  long  years — had  served  her  and  shielded  her,  though 
she  never  recognised  its  existence,  till  at  length,  in  one  flash 
of  light,  the  revelation  had  come  to  her,  and  she  had  learnt 
the  glory  of  Love,  the  murky  gloom  of  those  past  misunder- 
standings. 

Those  were  wonderful  days  that  they  spent  together  at 
Florence,  the  sort  of  days  that  come  but  once  in  a  lifetime  ; 
for  the  joy  of  da\m  is  quite  distinct  from  the  bright  noonday 
or  the  calm  evening,  distinct,  too,  from  that  second  and  grander 
dawn  which  awaits  us  in  the  Unseen  when  the  night  of  life  is 
over.  Together  they  wandered  through  the  long  coiTidors  of 
the  Uffizzi;  together  they  returned  again  and  again  to  the 
Tribune,  or  traversed  that  interminable  passage  across  the  river 
which  leads  to  the  Pitti  Gallery,  or  roamed  about  among  the 
old  squares  and  palaces,  which  are  haunted  by  so  many 
memoiues.     And  every  day  Brian  meant  to  speak,  but  could 


290  FIESOLB. 

not,  because  the  peace,  and  rcstfulness,  and  glamonr  of  tho 
present  was  so  perfect,  and  perhaps  because,  unconsciously,  ha 
felt  that  these  were  '  halcyon  days.' 

On  Sunday  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  certainly  would 
speak  before  the  day  was  over.  He  went  with  Erica  to  see  the 
old  monastery  of  San  Marco  before  morning  service  at  the 
English  church.  But,  though  they  were  alone  together,  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  there.  They  wandered  from 
cell  to  cell,  looking  at  those  wonderful  frescoes  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion, in  each  of  which  Era  Angelico  seemed  to  gain  some  fresh 
thought,  some  new  view  of  his  inexhaustible  subject.  And 
Brian,  watching  Erica,  thought  how  that  old  master  would  have 
delighted  in  the  pure  face  and  perfect  colouring,  in  the  short 
auburn  hair,  which  was  in  itself  a  halo,  but  could  not  somehow 
just  then  draw  her  thoughts  away  from  the  frescoes.  Together 
they  stood  in  the  little  cells  occupied  once  by  Savonarola ; 
looked  at  the  strange,  stern  face  which  Bastianini  chiselled  so 
effectively ;  stood  by  the  old  wooden  desk  where  Savonarola 
had  written  and  read,  saying  very  little  to  one  another,  but 
each  conscious  that  the  silence  was  one  of  perfect  understanding 
and  sympathy.  Then  came  the  service  in  a  hideous  church, 
which  yet  seemed  beautiful  to  them,  with  indifferent  singing, 
which  was  somehow  sweeter  to  them  than  the  singing  of  a 
trained  choir  elsewhere. 

But,  on  returning  to  the  hotel,  Brian  found  that  his  chances 
for  that  day  were  over,  for  all  the  afternoon  Erica  had  to  re- 
ceive a  constant  succession  of  visitors,  who,  as  she  said,  turned 
her  father  for  the  time  being  into  the  '  British  lion.'  In  the 
evening,  too,  when  they  walked  in  the  Cascine,  they  were  no 
longer  alone.  Raeburn  went  with  them,  and  as  they  paced 
along  the  broad  avenue  with  the  Arno  gleaming  through  the 
fresh  green  of  the  trees,  talking  of  the  discussions  of  the  past 
week,  he  inadvertently  touched  the  note  of  pain  in  an  otherwise 
cloudless  day. 

'  The  work  is  practically  over  now,'  he  said.  *  But  I  think 
I  must  take  a  day  or  two  to  see  a  little  of  Florence.  I  must 
be  at  Salzburg  to  meet  Hasenbalg  by  Wednesday  week.  Can 
you  be  ready  to  leave  here  on  Wednesday,  Ericl' 

'  Oh,  yes,  father,'  she  said,  without  hesitation  or  comment, 
but  with  something  in  her  voice  which  told  Brian  that  she,  too, 
felt  a  pang  of  regret  at  the  thought  that  their  days  in  that 
city  of  golden  dreams  were  so  soon  to  be  ended. 

The  Monday  morning,  however,  proved  so  perfect  a  day 
that  it  dispelled  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  on  them.     Raeburn 


FIESOLE.  291 

wished  to  go  to  Fiesole,  and  early  in  the  morning,  Brian  having 
secured  a  carriage  and  settled  the  terms  with  the  crafty -looking 
Italian  driver,  they  set  off  together.  The  sunny  streets  looked 
sunnier  than  ever ;  the  Toruabuoni  was  as  usual  lively  and 
bustling ;  the  flower-market  at  the  base  of  the  Palazza  Strozzi 
was  gay  with  pinks  and  carnations  and  early  roses.  They 
drove  out  of  the  city,  past  innumerable  villas,  out  into  the 
open  country,  where  the  only  blot  upon  the  fair  landscape  was 
a  funeral  train,  the  coffin  borne  by  those  gruesome  beings,  the 
Brothers  of  the  Misericordia,  with  their  black  robes  and  black 
face-cloths  pierced  only  with  holes  for  the  eyes. 

'  Is  it  necessary  to  make  death  so  repulsive  V  said  Raeburn. 
'  Our  own  black  hearses  are  bad  enough,  but  upon  my  word  I 
should  be  sorry  to  be  canned  to  my  grave  by  such  grim  beings!' 

He  took  off  his  hat,  however,  as  they  passed,  and  that  not 
merely  out  of  deference  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  but 
because  of  the  deep  reverence  with  which  he  invariably  re- 
garded the  dead — a  reverence  which  in  his  own  country  was 
marked  by  the  involuntary  softening  of  his  voice  when  he 
alluded  to  the  death  of  others,  the  token  of  a  nature  which, 
though  strangely  twisted,  was  in  truth  deeply  reverential. 

Then  began  the  long  ascent,  the  road,  as  usual,  being  lined 
with  beggars,  who  importunately  followed  the  carriage  ;  while, 
no  sooner  had  they  I'eached  the  village  itself,  then  they  were 
besieged  by  at  least  a  dozen  women  selling  the  straw  baskets 
which  are  the  speciality  of  Fiesole. 

'  £cco,  Si'ffnor  !  ecco,  signorina  !  Vary  sheep  !  vary  sheep  ! ' 
resounded  on  all  sides,  each  vendor  thrusting  her  wares  forward, 
so  that  progress  was  impossible. 

'What  a  pkgue  this  is!'  said  Raeburn.  '  They'll  never 
leave  you  in  peace.  Erica;  they  are  too  well  used  to  the  soft- 
hearted signorina  higlese.^ 

'  Well,  then,  I  shall  leave  you  to  settle  them,'  said  Erica, 
laughing, '  and  see  if  I  can't  sketch  a  little  in  the  amphitheatre. 
They  can't  torment  us  there,  because  there  is  an  entrance  fee.' 

'  All  right ;  and  I  will  try  this  bird's-eye  view  of  Florence,' 
said  Raeburn,  establishing  himself  upon  the  seat  which  stands 
on  the  verge  of  the  hill  looking  southward.  He  was  very  fond 
of  making  pen-and-ink  sketches,  and  by  his  determined,  though 
perfectly  courteous  manner,  he  at  last  succeeded  in  dismissing 
the  basket-women. 

Erica  and  Brian,  in  the  meantime,  walked  dovt'n  the  steep 
little  path  which  leads  back  to  the  village,  on  their  way  en- 
countering a  second  procession  of  Brothers  bearing  a  coffin. 


292  FIESOLB. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  found  their  way  into  a  quiet  garden, 
at  the  remote  end  of  which,  far  from  the  houses  of  Ficsole,  and 
sheltered  on  all  sides  by  the  green  Apennines,  was  an  old 
Roman  amphitheatre.  Grass  and  flowei-s  had  sprung  up  now 
on  the  arena  where,  in  olden  times,  had  been  fearful  struggles 
between  men  and  beasts.  Wild  roses  and  honeysuckle  drooped 
over  the  grey  old  building,  and  in  between  the  great  blocks 
of  stone  which  formed  the  tiers  of  seats  for  the  spectators, 
sprang  the  yellow  celandine  and  the  white  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Erica  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  stony  seats,  and  began  to 
sketch  the  outline  of  the  hills,  and  roughly  to  draw  in  the 
foregi'ound  the  further  side  of  the  amphitheatre  and  a  broken 
column  which  lay  in  the  middle. 

'Would  you  mind  fetching  me  some  water  V  she  said  to  Brian. 

There  was  a  little  trickling  stream  close  by,  half  hidden  by 
bramble-biishes.  Brian  filled  her  glass,  and  watched  her  brush 
as  she  washed  in  the  sky. 

'  Is  that  too  blue,  do  you  think  V  she  asked,  glancing  up  at 
him  with  one  of  her  bright  looks. 

*  Nothing  could  be  too  deep  for  such  a  sky  as  this,'  he 
replied,  half  absently.  Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone, 
*  Erica,  do  you  remember  the  first  day  you  spoke  to  me.' 

'  Under  murky  London  skies  very  unlike  these,'  she  said, 
laughing  a  little,  but  nervously.  '  You  mean  the  day  when 
our  umbrellas  collided  ! ' 

'  You  mustn't  abuse  the  murky  skies,'  said  Brian,  smiling. 
'  If  the  sun  had  been  shining,  the  collision  would  never  have 
occurred.  Oh,  Erica  !  what  a  lifetime  it  seems  since  that  day 
in  Gower  Street !  I  little  thought  then  that  I  should  have  to 
wait  more  than  seven  years  to  tell  you  of  my  love,  or  that  at 
last  I  should  tell  you  in  a  Roman  amphitheatre  under  these 
blue  skies.  Erica,  I  think  you  have  known  it  of  late.  Havo 
you,  my  darling !     Have  you  known  how  I  loved  you  1 ' 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  looking  down  at  her  sketch-book  with  glow- 
ing cheeks. 

'  Oh  !  if  you  knew  what  a  paradise  of  hope  you  opened  to 
me  that  day  last  December,  and  how  different  life  has  been 
ever  since  !  Those  were  grey  years.  Erica,  when  I  dared  not 
even  hope  to  gain  your  love.  But  lately,  darling,  I  have  hoped. 
Was  I  wrong?' 

'  No,'  she  said  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice. 

*You  will  love  me]' 

She  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  a  glorious 
light  in  her  eyes,  her  whole  face  radiant  with  joy. 


FIESOLB.  293 

*  I  do  love  3'ou,'  she  said,  softly. 

He  drew  nearer  to  her,  held  both  her  hands  in  his,  Avaiting 
only  for  the  promise  which  would  make  her,  indeed,  his  own, 

'  Will  you  be  my  wife,  darling  1 ' 

But  the  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips  when  a  look  of 
anguish  swept  over  Erica's  face ;  she  snatched  away  her  hands. 

'  Oh  !  God  help  me  ! '  she  cried,  '  What  have  I  done  1 
I've  been  living  in  a  dream  !  It's  impossible,  Brian  !  Im- 
possible !  * 

A  grey  look  came  over  Brian's  face, 

'  HoAv  impossible  1 '  he  asked,  in  a  choked  voice. 

'  I  can't  leave  home,'  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  tightly 
together.     '  I  never  can  leave  my  father.' 

'  I  will  wait,'  said  Brian,  recovering  his  voice,  '  I  will  wait 
iny  time  for  you — only  give  me  hope.' 

'  I  can't,'  she  sobbed.     '  I  daren't ! ' 

'But  you  have  given  it  me!'  he  exclaimed  'You  have 
said  you  loved  me  ! ' 

'  I  do  !  I  do  ! '  she  cried,  passionately.  '  But,  oh,  Brian  ! 
have  pity  on  me — don't  make  me  say  it  again — I  must  not 
think  of  it — I  can  never  be  jonr  Avife.' 

Her  words  Avere  broken  Avith  sobs,  which  she  could  not  restrain, 

'  My  darling,'  he  said,  growing  calm  and  strong  again  at  the 
sight  of  her  agitation,  and  once  more  possessing  himself  of  her 
hand,  *  you  have  had  a  great  many  troubles  lately,  and  I  can 
quite  understand  that  just  noAV  you  could  not  leave  your  father. 
But  I  will  wait  till  less  troubled  times  ;  then  surely  you  will 
come  to  me  "i ' 

'  No,'  she  said  quickly,  as  if  not  daring  to  pause,  '  it  will 
always  be  the  same  ;  there  never  Avill  be  quiet  times  for  us,  I 
can't  leave  my  father  !  It  isn't  as  if  he  had  other  children — I 
am  the  only  one,  and  I  must  staj^' 

'  Is  this,  then,  to  be  the  end  of  it  all]'  cried  Brian,  'My 
darling,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  to  me  !  It  cannot  be  the  end 
—there  is  no  end  to  love — and  Ave  know  that  Ave  love  each 
other.     Erica,  give  me  some  future  to  look  to — some  hope  ! ' 

The  terrible  pain  expressed  in  CA-ery  line  of  his  face  Avrung 
her  heart, 

'  Oh,  wait,'  she  exclaimed.     'Give  me  one  moment  to  think,' 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  shutting  out  the  sunny 
Italian  landscape,  the  very  beauty  of  which  seemed  to  Aveaken 
her  powers  of  endurance.  Truly  she  had  been  living  lately  in 
a  golden  dream,  and  the  Avaking  Avas  anguish.  Oh,  if  she  had 
but  realised  before  the  meaning  of  it  all,  then  she  Avould  have 


294  PIESOLB. 

hidden  her  love  so  that  he  never  would  have  guessed  it !  She 
would  have  been  to  him  the  Erica  of  a  year  ago,  just  a  friend 
and  nothing  more  !  But  now  she  must  give  him  the  worst  of 
pain,  perhaps  ruin  his  whole  life !  If  she  might  but  give  him 
some  promise !  What  was  the  right  ]  How  were  love  and 
duty  to  be  reconciled  ] 

As  she  sat  crouched  up  in  her  misery,  fighting  the  hardest 
battle  of  her  life,  the  bell  in  the  campanile  of  the  village 
church  began  to  ring.  It  was  twelve  o'clock.  All  through 
the  land,  in  remembrance  of  the  hour  when  the  true  meaning 
of  love  and  sacrifice  Avas  revealed  to  the  human  race,  there 
swept  now  the  music  of  church-bells,  bidding  the  people  to 
pause  in  their  work  and  pray.  Many  a  peasant  raised  his 
thoughts  for  a  moment  from  sordid  cares  or  hard  laboiir,  and 
realised  that  there  was  an  unseen  world.  And  here  in  the 
Roman  amphitheatre,  where  a  conflict  more  painful  than  those 
physical  conflicts  of  old  time  Avas  going  on,  a  soul  prayed 
in  agony  for  the  wisdom  to  see  the  right  and  the  strength  to 
do  it. 

When  at  length  Erica  lifted  her  face,  she  found  that  Brian 
was  no  longer  beside  her,  he  was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the 
arena ;  the  waiting  had  grown  unbearable  to  him.  She  went 
down  to  him,  moving  neither  quickly  nor  hurriedly,  but  at 
the  steady  '  right  onward '  pace  which  suited  her  whole  aspect. 

'Brian,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  'do  you  remember  telling 
me  that  day  that  I  must  try  to  show  tliem  what  the  Father  is] 
You  must  help  me  now,  not  hinder.  You  Avill  help  me  just 
because  you  clo  indeed  love  mel' 

'You  will  give  me  no  promise  even  for  the  most  distant  future  1' 

'  I  can't,'  she  replied,  faltering  a  little  as  she  saw  him  tuna 
deadly  white.  'If  there  were  any  engagement  between  us,  1 
should  liave  to  tell  my  father  of  it,  and  that  Avould  only  make 
our  trouble  his  and  defeat  my  whole  object.  Oh,  Brian,  forgive 
me,  and  just  leave  me.  I  can  have  given  you  nothing  but  pain 
all  these  years.     Don't  let  me  spoil  your  whole  life  !' 

His  face  caught  something  of  the  noble  purpose  which  made 
hers  shine  in  spite  of  the  sadness. 

'  Darling,'  he  said,  quickly,  '  I  can  thank  God  for  you, 
though  you  are  never  to  be  mine.     God  bless  you,  Erica.' 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  ;  he  still  kept  her  hands  in  his. 

'  Tell  your  father  I've  gone  for  a  walk,  over  to  those  hills — 
that  I  shall  not  be  home  till  evening.'  He  felt  her  hands 
tremble,  and  knew  that  he  only  tortured  her  by  staying, 
'Will  you  kiss  me  once.  Erica  1'  he  said. 


FIESOLB.  295 

She  lifted  a  pale  steadfast  face  and  quivering  lips  to  his, 
and  after  that  one  long  embrace  they  parted.  When  he  turned 
away,  Erica  stood  quite  still  for  a  minute  in  the  arena  listening 
to  his  retreating  footsteps.  Her  heart,  which  had  throbbed 
painfully,  seemed  now  only  to  echo  his  steps,  to  beat  more 
faintly  as  they  grew  less  audible.  At  last  came  silence,  and 
then  she  crept  up  to  the  place  where  she  had  left  her  sketch- 
book and  paint-box. 

The  whole  world  seemed  sliding  away — aching  desolation 
overwhelmed  her.  Brian's  face  with  its  passion  and  pain  rose 
before  her  dry,  burning  eyes.  Then  darkness  came,  blotting 
out  the  sunshine ;  the  little  stream  trickling  into  its  stony 
basin  seemed  to  grow  into  a  roaring  cataract,  the  waters  to 
rush  into  her  ears  with  a  horrid  gurgling ;  while  the  stones  of 
the  amphitheatre  seemed  to  change  into  blocks  of  ice  and  to 
freeze  her  as  she  lay. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  gasped  her  way  painfully  back  to 
life.  All  was  very  peaceful  now ;  the  water  fell  with  its  soft 
tinkling  sound,  there  was  a  low  hum  of  insects  ;  beside  her 
stony  pillow  grew  some  stars  of  Bethlehem,  and  in  between 
their  delicate  white  and  gi-een  she  could  see  the  arena  and  the 
tiers  of  seats  opposite,  and  out  beyond  the  green  encircling 
hills.  Golden  sunshine  lighted  up  the  dark  pines  and  spire- 
like cypresses ;  in  the  distance  there  was  an  olive-garden, 
its  soft,  grey-green  foliage  touched  into  silvery  brightness. 

The  beauty  of  the  scene,  which  in  her  struggle  had  seemed 
to  weaken  and  unnerve  her,  stole  now  into  her  heart  and  com- 
forted her ;  and  all  the  time  there  rang  in  her  ears  the  message 
that  the  bells  had  brought  her, — 'Who  for  the  joy  that  was 
set  before  Him,  endured  the  cross.' 

'Taking  a  siesta]'  said  a  voice  above  her.  She  looked  up 
and  saw  her  father. 

'  I've  rather  a  head-ache,'  she  replied. 

'  Enough  to  give  you  one,  my  child,  to  lie  there  in  the  sun 
without  an  umbrella,'  he  said,  putting  up  his  own  to  shelter 
her.  '  Such  a  May  noon-day  in  Italy  might  give  you  a  sun- 
stroke.    What  was  your  doctor  thinking  of  to  allow  it?' 

'  Brian  ]  Oh,  he  has  gone  over  to  those  hills  !  we  are  not 
to  wait  for  him,  he  wanted  a  walk,' 

'  Quite  right,'  said  Raeburn.  '  I  don't  think  he  ought  to 
waste  his  holiday  in  Italian  cities;  he  wants  fresh  air  and 
exercise  after  his  London  life.  Where's  your  handker- 
chief?' 

He  took  it  to  the  little  stream,  put  aside  the  overhanging 


296  FIESOLB. 

bushes,  dipped  it  in  tlic  water,  and  bringing  it  back  laid  it  on  licr 
burning  forehead. 

'  How  you  spoil  me,  2^cidre  mio'  she  said,  Avith  a  little  langh 
that  "was  sadder  than  tears ;  and  as  she  spoke  she  slipped  down 
to  a  lower  step  and  rested  her  head  on  his  knee,  drawing  down 
one  of  his  strong  hands  to  shade  her  eyes.  He  talked  of  his 
sketch,  of  his  word-skimiish  with  the  basket-women,  of  the 
view  from  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  she  did  not  much  hear  what 
he  said,  she  was  looking  at  the  hand  that  shaded  her  eyes. 
That  strong  hand  which  had  toiled  for  her  when  she  was  a 
helpless  baby,  the  hand  to  which  she  had  clung  Avhen  every 
other  support  had  been  wrenched  away  by  death,  the  hand 
which  she  had  held  in  hers  when  she  thoiight  he  was  dying, 
and  the  children  had  sung  of  '  Life's  long  day  and  death's  dark 
night.' 

All  at  once  she  drew  it  down  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips  with 
a  child's  loving  reverence.  Then  she  sat  up  with  a  sudden 
return  of  energy. 

'There,  now  let  us  go  home,'  she  exclaimed.  'My  head 
aches  a  little  still,  but  we  Avon't  let  it  spoil  our  last  clay  but 
one  in  Florence.  Didn't  Ave  talk  of  San  Miniato  for  this 
afternoon  1* 

It  was  something  of  a  relief  to  find,  on  returning,  an  invi- 
tation to  dinner  for  that  evening  Avhich  Raeburn  could  not  Avell 
refuse.  Erica  kept  up  bravely  through  the  afternoon,  but 
when  she  Avas  once  more  alone  her  physical  poAvers  gave  way. 
She  Avas  lying  on  her  bed  sick  and  faint  and  weaiy,  and  with 
the  peculiarly  desolate  feeling  Avhich  comes  to  most  people 
Avhen  they  are  ill  in  a  hotel  Avith  all  the  unheeding  bustle  going 
on  around  them.     Then  came  a  knock  at  her  door. 

'  Entrate,^  she  said,  quickly,  Avelcoming  any  fresh  voice  Avhich 
wovdd  divert  her  mind  from  the  weary  longing  for  her  mother. 
A  sort  of  Avild  hope  spiling  up  Avithin  her  that  some  Avoman 
friend  Avould  be  sent  to  her,  that  Gladys  Farrant,  or  old  JMrs. 
Osmond,  or  her  secularist  friend  Mi*s.  MacNaughton,  Avhom  she 
loA'ed  best  of  all,  would  suddenly  find  themselves  in  Florence 
and  come  to  her  in  her  need. 

There  entered  a  tall,  over-Avorked  Avaiter.  He  looked  first 
at  her,  then  at  the  note  in  his  hand,  spelling  out  the  direction 
Avith  a  puzzled  face. 

'  Mees  Habi — Rabi — Rabi — Rabi — an  V  he  asked,  hesitat- 
ingly. 

'  Grazie,'  she  replied,  almost  snatching  it  from  him.  The 
colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks  as  she  saw  the  writing  was  Brian's, 


FIESOLB.  297 

and  the  instant  tlie  waiter  had  closed  the  door,  she  tore  open 
the  envelope  with  trembling  hands. 

It  was  a  last  appeal,  written  after  he  had  returned  from 
wandering  among  the  Apennines,  worn  out  in  body,  and  shaken 
from  the  noble  fortitude  of  the  morning.  The  strong  passionate 
words  woke  an  answering  thrill  in  Erica's  heart.  He  asked 
her  to  think  it  all  over  once  more,  he  had  gone  away  too 
hastily.  If  she  could  change  her  mind,  could  see  any  possible 
hope  for  the  futui'e,  would  she  write  to  him  ?  If  he  heai-d 
nothing  from  her,  he  would  understand  what  the  silence  meant. 
This  was  in  brief  the  substance  of  the  letter,  but  the  words  had 
a  passionate,  unrestrained  intensity  which  showed  they  had 
been  written  by  a  man  of  strong  nature  overwrought  by  suf- 
fering and  excitement. 

He  was  here,  in  the  very  hotel !  Might  she  not  write  to 
him  ? — might  she  not  send  him  some  sort  of  message — write  just 
a  word  of  indefinite  hope  which  would  comfort  and  relieve  her- 
self as  well  as  him  ]  *  If  I  do  not  hear  from  you,  I  shall  under- 
stand what  your  silence  means.'  Ah  !  but  would  he  under- 
stand? What  had  she  said  this  morning  to  him?  Scarcely 
anything — the  merest  broken  bits  of  sentences,  the  poorest, 
coldest  confession  of  love. 

Her  writing-case  lay  open  on  the  table  beside  the  bed,  with 
an  unfinished  letter  to  Aunt  Jean,  begun  before  they  had 
started  for  Fiesole.  She  snatched  up  paper  and  pen,  and 
trembling  so  much  that  she  could  scarcely  support  herself  she 
wrote  two  brief  lines. 

*  Darling,  I  love  you,  and  always  must  love  you,  first  and 
best.' 

Then  she  lay  back  again  exhausted,  looking  at  the  poor  little 
weak  words,  which  would  not  contain  a  thousandth  part  of  the 
love  in  her  heart.  Yet,  though  the  words  were  true,  would 
they  perhaps  convey  a  wrong  meaning  to  him  1  Ought  she  to 
send  them  1  On  the  other  hand  would  he  indeed  xmderstand 
the  silence — the  silence  which  seemed  now  intolerable  to  her  1 
She  folded  the  note  and  directed  it,  the  tumult  in  her  heart 
growing  wilder  as  she  did  so.  Once  more  there  raged  the  battle 
which  she  had  fought  in  the  amphitheatre  that  morning,  and  she 
was  not  so  strong  now  ;  she  was  weakened  by  physical  pain,  and 
to  endure  was  far  harder.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  whole  life 
would  be  unbearable  if  she  did  not  send  him  that  m'sssage.  And 
to  send  it  was  so  fatally  easy  ;  she  had  merely  to  ring,  and  then 
in  a  few  minutes  the  note  would  be  in  his  hands. 

It  was  a  little  narrow  slip  of  a  room  3  all  her  life  long  she 


298  FIESOLB. 

could  vividly  recall  it.  The  single  bed  pushed  close  to  the  wall, 
the  writing-table  with  its  gay-patterned  cloth,  the  hanging  ward- 
robe with  glass  doors,  the  walls  trellised  with  roses,  and  on  the 
ceiling  a  painting  of  some  white  swans  eternally  swimming  in 
an  ultramarine  lake.  The  window,  unshuttered,  but  veiled  by 
muslin  curtains,  looked  out  upon  the  Arno ;  from  her  bed  she 
could  see  the  lights  on  the  further  bank.  On  the  wall  close 
beside  her  was  a  little  round  wooden  projection.  If  it  had  been  a 
rattlesnake,  she  could  not  have  gazed  at  it  more  fixedly.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  printed  card  above,  and  the  words  written  in 
French  and  English,  German,  and  Italian,  seemed  to  fall  mechani- 
cally on  her  brain,  though  burning  thoughts  seethed  there  too. 

'  Ring  once  for  hot  water,  twice  for  the  chambermaid,  three 
times  for  the  w^aiter.' 

Merely  to  touch  that  ivory  knob,  and  then  by  the  lightest 
pressure  of  the  finger  tips  a  whole  world  of  love  and  happiness 
and  rest  might  open  for  her,  and  life  would  be  changed  for 
ever. 

Again  and  again  she  was  on  the  point  of  yielding,  but  each 
time  she  resisted,  and  each  resistance  made  her  stronger.  At 
length,  with  a  fearful  effort,  she  turned  her  face  away  and 
buried  it  in  the  pillow,  clinging  with  all  her  might  to  the  iron- 
work of  the  bed. 

For  at  least  an  hour — the  most  frightful  hour  of  her  life — 
she  did  not  dare  to  stir.  At  last  when  her  hands  were  stiff  and 
sore  with  that  rigid  grasping,  when  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  had 
been  wrenched  out  of  her,  and  had  left  nothing  but  an  aching 
void,  she  sat  up  and  tore  both  Brian's  note  and  her  reply  into 
a  thousand  pieces ;  then,  in  a  weary,  lifeless  way,  made  her 
preparations  for  the  night. 

But  sleep  was  impossible.  The  struggle  was  over  for  ever, 
but  the  pain  was  but  just  begun,  and  she  was  still  a  young  girl, 
with  the  best  part  of  her  life  stretching  out  before  her.  She  did 
not  toss  about  restlessly,  but  lay  very  still,  just  enduring  her 
misery,  while  all  the  everyday  sounds  came  to  her  from  without — 
laughter  in  the  next  room  from  two  talkative  American  girls, 
doors  opening  and  shutting,  boots  thrown  down,  electric  bells 
rung,  presently  her  father's  step  and  voice. 

'  Has  Miss  Raeburn  been  up  long?' 

*  Sairtenlee,  sair,  yes,'  replied  the  English-speaking  waiter.' 
'  The  dgnorina  sleeps,  doubtless. 

Then  came  a  pause,  and  in  another  minute  her  father's  door 
was  closed  and  locked. 

Noisy  parties  of  men  shouting  out  some  chorus  sung  at  one 


FIEBOLE.  299 

of  the  theatres  passed  along  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  twanging 
mandolins  wandered  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight.  The 
sound  of  that  harshest  and  most  jarring  of  all  musical  instru- 
ments was  ever  after  hateful  to  her.  She  could  not  hear  one 
played  without  a  shudder. 

Slowly  and  -wearily  the  night  wore  on.  Sometimes  she  stole 
to  the  Avindow  and  looked  out  on  the  sleeping  city,  on  the 
peaceful  Arno  which  was  bathed  in  silvery  moonlight,  and  on 
the  old,  irregular  houses,  thinking  what  struggles  and  agonies 
this  place  had  witnessed  in  past  times,  and  realising  what  an 
infinitesimal  bit  of  the  world's  sufferings  she  was  called  to  bear. 
Sometimes  she  lit  a  candle  and  read,  sometimes  prayed,  but  for 
the  most  part  just  lay  still,  silently  enduring,  learning,  though 
she  did  not  think  it,  the  true  meaning  of  pain. 

Somewhat  later  than  usual,  she  joined  her  father  the  next 
morning  in  the  coffee-room. 

'  Brian  tells  me  he  is  off  to-day,'  was  Raeburn's  greeting. 
'  It  seems  that  he  must  see  that  patient  at  Genoa  again,  and  he 
wants  to  get  a  clear  fortnight  in  Switzerland.* 

*  Is  it  not  rather  early  for  Switzerland  ]' 

'  I  should  have  thought  so ;  but  he  knows  more  about  it 
than  I  do.  He  has  written  to  try  to  persuade  your  friend,  Mr. 
Farrant,  to  join  him  in  the  Whitsuntide  recess.' 

'  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that,'  said  Erica,  greatly  relieved. 

Directly  after  breakfast  she  went  out  with  her  father,  going 
first  of  all  to  French's  bank,  where  Eaeburn  had  to  change  a 
circular  note. 

'  It  is  upstairs,'  he  said  as  they  reached  the  house.  '  Don't 
you  trouble  to  come  up ;  you'll  have  stairs  enough  presently  at 
the  UfEzzi.' 

'  Very  well,'  she  replied,  '  I  will  wait  for  you  here.' 

She  stood  in '  the  doorway  looking  out  thoughtfully  at  the 
busy  Tornabuoni  and  its  gay  shops ;  but  in  a  minute  a  step  she 
knew  sounded  on  the  staircase,  and  the  colour  rushed  to  her 
cheeks. 

*  I  have  just  said  good-bye  to  your  father,'  said  Brian.  '  I 
am  leaving  Florence  this  morning.  You  must  forgive  me  for 
having  written  last  night.  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  and  I 
understood  your  silence.' 

He  spoke  calmly,  in  the  repressed  voice  of  a  man  who  holds 
*  passion  in  a  leash.  *•  Erica  was  thankful  to  have  the  last  sight 
of  him  thus — calm  and  strong  and  self-restrained.  It  was  a 
nobler  side  of  love  than  that  which  had  inspired  his  letter- 
nobler  because  freer  from  thought  of  self. 


300  'right  onwatxD.' 

'  I  am  so  glad  you  will  have  DonoTan,'  she  said.    '  Good-bye.' 
He  took  her  hand  in  his,  pressed  it,  and  turned  away  with- 
out a  word. 


CHAPTER   XXXITI. 

'eight  onward.' 

Therefore  my  Hope  arose 
From  out  her  swound  and  gazed  upon  Thy  face. 
And,  meeting  there  that  soft  subduing  look 

Which  Peter's  spirit  shook, 
Sank  downward  in  a  rapture  to  embrace 
Thy  pierced  hands  and  feet  with  kisses  close, 
And  prayed  Thee  to  assist  her  evermore 

To  '  reach  the  things  before.' 

E.  33,  Browning. 

•  I'm  really  thankful  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  have  to  get  this 
abominable  paper  money,'  said  Raeburn,  coming  down  the  stairs. 
'  Just  count  these  twos  and  fives  for  me,  dear ;  fifteen  of  each 
there  should  be.' 

At  that  moment  Brian  had  just  passed  the  tall,  white  column 
disappearing  into  the  street  which  leads  to  the  Borgo  Ogni 
Santi.  Erica  turned  to  begin  her  new  chapter  of  life  heavily 
handicapped  in  the  race,  for  once  more  that  deadly  faintness 
crept  over  her,  a  numbing,  stifling  pressure,  as  if  Pain  in 
physical  form  had  seized  her  heart  in  his  cold  clasp.  But  with 
all  her  strength  she  fought  against  it,  forcing  herself  to  count 
the  hateful  little  bits  of  paper,  and  thankful  that  her  father  was 
too  much  taken  up  with  the  arrangement  of  his  purse  to  notice 
her. 

'  I  am  glad  we  happened  to  meet  Brian,'  he  remarked  ; 
'  he  goes  by  an  earlier  train  than  I  thought.  Now,  little  son 
Eric,  where  shall  Ave  go  ?  AVe'll  have  a  day  of  unmitigated 
pleasure  and  throw  care  to  the  winds.  I'll  even  forswear 
Vieusseux  ;  there  won't  be  much  news  to-day.' 

'  Let  us  take  the  Pitti  Palace  first,'  said  Erica,  knowing  that 
the  fresh  air  and  the  walk  Avould  be  the  only  chance  for  her. 

She  walked  very  quickly,  with  the  feeling  that,  if  she  Avere 
still  for  a  single  moment,  slie  should  fall  down.  And,  luckily, 
llaeburn  tliought  her  paleness  accounted  for  by  yesterday's 
headache  and  the  Avakeful  night,  and  never  suspected  the  true 
state  of  the  case.  On  they  Avent,  past  fixscinating  marble  shops 
and  jewellers'  windows  filled  with  Florentine  mosaics,  across  the 


•  RIGHT  ONWARD.'  301 

Ponte  Vecchio,  down  a  shady  street,  and  into  the  I'ough-hewn, 
grim-looking  palace.  It  was  to  Erica  like  a  dream  of  pain  ;  the 
surroundings  were  so  lovely,  the  sunshine  so  perfect,  and  her 
own  heart  so  sore. 

But  within  that  old  palace  she  found  the  true  cure  for 
sore  hearts.  She  remembei'ed  having  looked  with  Brian  at  an 
'  Ecce  Homo,'  by  Carlo  Dolci,  and  thought  she  would  like  to 
Gee  it  again.  It  was  not  a  picture  her  father  would  have  cared 
for,  and  she  left  him  looking  at  Raphaels  '  Three  Ages  of  Man,' 
and  went  by  herself  into  the  little   room  Avhich  is  called  the 

*  Hall  of  Ulysses.'  The  picture  was  a  small  one,  and  had  what 
are  considered  the  usual  faults  of  the  painter,  but  it  was  the 
first  '  Ecce  Homo '  that  Erica  had  ever  cared  for ;  and,  what- 
ever the  shortcomings  of  the  execution,  the  ideal  was  a  most 
beautiful  one.  The  traces  of  physical  pain  were  not  brought 
into  undue  prominence,  appearing  not  at  all  in  the  face,  which 
was  full  of  unutterable  calm  and  dignity.  The  deep,  brown 
eyes  had  the  strange  power  which  belongs  to  some  pictures, 
they  followed  you  all  over  the  room^there  was  no  escaping 
them.  They  were  hauntingly  sad  eyes,  eyes  in  which  there 
lurked  grief  unspeakable ;  not  the  grief  which  attends  bodily 
pain,  but  the  grief  which  grieves  for  others — the  grief  which 
grieves  for  humanity,  for  its  thousand  ills  and  ignorances,  its 
doubts  and  denials,  its  sins  and  sufferings.  There  was  no  bitter- 
ness in  it,  no  restlessness,  no  questioning.  It  was  the  grief  of 
a  noble  sti'ong  man  whose  heart  is  torn  by  the  thought  of  the  sin 
and  misery  of  his  brothers,  but  who  knows  that  the  Father  can, 
and  will,  turn  the  evil  into  the  means  of  glorious  gain. 

As  Erica  looked,  the  true  meaning  of  pain  seemed  to  flash 
upon  her.  Dimly  she  had  apprehended  it  hi  the  days  of  her 
atheism,  had  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  pain  of  the  few  brought 
the  gain  of  the  many ;  but  now  the  hope  became  certainty,  the 
faith  became  open  vision.  For  was  it  not  all  here,  wi'itteu  in 
clearest  characters,  in  the  life  of  the  Ideal  Man  1  And  is  not 
what  was  true  for  him,  true  for  us  too  1     We  talk  much  about 

*  Christ  our  example,'  and  struggle  painfully  along  the  uphill 
road  of  the  Imitation  of  Christ,  meaning  by  that  too  often  a 
vague  endeavour  to  be  'good,'  to  be  patient,  to  be  not  entirely 
absorbed  in  the  things  which  are  seen.  But  when  pain  comes, 
when  the  immense  misery  and  evil  in  the  world  are  borne  in 
upon  us,  we  too  often  stumble,  or  fail  utterly,  just  because  we 
do  not  understand  our  sonship  ;  because  we  forget  that  Chris- 
tians must  be  sin-bearers  like  their  Master,  pain-bearers  like 
their  Master ;  because  we  will  let  ourselves  be  blinded  by  the 


302  '  UTOHT  ONWARD.' 

mystery  of  evil  and  the  mystery  of  pain,  instead  of  fixing  our 
eyes  as  Christ  did,  on  the  joy  that  those  mysteries  are  sure  to 
bring.  '  Lo,  I  come  to  do  Thy  will.'  And  what  is  the  will 
of  even  a  good  earthly  father  but  the  best  possible  for  all  his 
children  1 

Erica  saw  for  the  first  time  that  no  pain  she  had  ever  suffered 
had  been  a  wasted  thing,  nor  had  it  merely  taught  her  personally 
some  needful  lesson ;  it  had  been  rather  her  allotted  service, 
her  share  of  pain-bearing,  sin-bearing,  Christ-following ;  her  op- 
portunity of  doing  the  '  Will' — not  self-chosen,  but  given  to  her 
as  one  of  the  best  of  gifts  by  the  Father  Himself. 

'  Oh,  what  a  little  fool  I've  been ! '  she  thought  to  herself, 
with  the  strange  pang  of  joy  which  comes  when  we  make  some 
discovery  which  sweetens  the  whole  of  life,  and  which  seems  so 
self-evident  that  we  can  but  wonder  and  wonder  at  our  dense 
stupidity  in  not  seeing  it  sooner.  '  I've  been  grudging  Brian 
what  God  sees  he  most  wants  !  I've  been  groaning  over  the 
libels  and  injustices  which  seem  to  bring  so  much  pain  and 
evil,  when,  after  all,  they  will  be,  in  the  long  run,  the  very 
things  to  show  people  the  need  of  tolerance,  and  to  establish 
freedom  of  speech.' 

Even  this  pain  of  renunciation  seemed  to  gain  a  new  meaning 
for  her,  though  she  could  not  in  the  least  fathom  it ;  even  the 
unspeakable  grief  of  feeling  that  her  father  was  devoting  much 
of  his  life  to  the  propagation  of  error,  lost  its  bitterness,  though 
it  retained  its  depth.  For  with  the  true  realisation  of  Father- 
hood and  Sonship  impatience  and  bitterness  die,  and  in  their 
place  rises  the  peace  which  'passeth  understanding.' 

'  We  will  have  a  day  of  unmitigated  pleasure,'  her  father 
had  said  to  her,  and  the  words  had  at  the  time  been  like  a 
sharp  stab.  But,  after  all,  might  not  this  pain,  this  unseen  and 
dimly  understood  work  for  humanity,  be  in  very  truth  the 
truest  pleasure?  What  artist  is  there  who  would  not  gratefully 
receive  from  the  Master  an  oi'der  to  attempt  the  loftiest  of 
subjects'?  What  poet  is  there  whose  heart  would  not  bound 
when  he  knew  he  was  called  to  write  on  the  noblest  of  themes  1 
All  the  struggles,  all  the  weary  days  of  failure,  all  the  misery 
of  conscious  incompleteness,  all  the  agony  of  soiil — these  were 
but  means  to  the  end,  and  so  inseparably  bound  up  with  the 
end  that  they  were  no  more  evil  but  good,  their  darkness  over- 
flooded  witli  the  light  of  the  work  achieved. 

Raeburn,  coming  into  the  room  saw  what  she  was  looking  at, 
and  turned  away.  Little  as  he  could  understand  her  thoughts, 
ho  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  wound  unnecessarily  one  who 


'  RIGHT  ONWARD.'  303 

differed  from  him.  His  words  in  public  wore  sharp  and  uncom- 
promising ;  in  debate  he  did  not  much  care  how  he  hit  as  long 
as  he  hit  hard.  But,  apart  from  the  excitement  of  such  sword- 
play,  he  was,  when  convinced  that  his  hearers  were  honest 
Christians,  genuinely  sorry  to  give  them  pain. 

Erica  found  him  looking  at  a  Sevres  china  vase  in  which  he 
could  not  by  any  possibility  have  been  interested. 

'  I  feel  Mr.  Euskin's  wrathful  eye  upon  me,'  she  said, 
laughing.  *  Now  after  spending  all  that  time  before  a  Carlo 
Dolci,  we  must  really  go  to  the  Uflizzi,  and  look  at  Botticelli's 
"  Fortitude."  Brian  and  I  nearly  quarrelled  over  it  the  last 
time  we  were  there.' 

So  they  wandered  away  together  throxigh  the  long  galleries, 
Erica  pointing  out  her  favourite  pictures  and  hearing  his 
opinion  about  them.  And  indeed  Raeburn  was  as  good  a  com- 
panion as  could  be  wished  for  in  a  picture-gallery.  The  intense 
development  of  the  critical  faculty,  which  had  really  been 
the  bane  of  his  existence,  came  here  to  his  aid,  for  he  had  a 
quick  eye  for  all  that  was  beautiful  both  in  art  and  nature, 
and  wonderfully  keen  powers  of  observation.  The  refreshment, 
too,  of  leaving  for  a  moment  his  life  of  excessive  toil  was  great ; 
Erica  hoped  that  he  really  did  find  the  day,  for  once,  '  unmiti- 
gated pleasure.' 

They  went  to  Santa  Croce,  they  walked  through  the 
crowded  market,  they  had  a  merry  dispute  about  ascending  the 
Campanile. 

'  Just  this  one  you  i-eally  must  let  me  try,'  said  Erica,  '  they 
say  it  is  very  easy.' 

'  To  people  without  spines  perhaps  it  may  be,'  said  Raeburn. 

'  But  think  of  the  view  fi'om  the  top,'  said  Erica,  '  and  it 
really  won't  hurt  me.  Now,  padre  mio,  I'm  sure  it's  for  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number  that  I  should  go 
up!' 

'  It's  the  old  story,'  said  Raeburn  smiling, 

*  **  Vain  is  the  hope,  by  any  force  or  skill, 
To  stem  the  cuiTent  of  a  woman's  will ; 
For  if  she  will,  she  will,  you  may  depend  on't, 
And  if  she  won't,  she  won't,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

However,  since  this  is  probably  the  last  time  in  our  lives  that 
we  shall  have  the  chance,  perhaps  I'll  not  do  the  tyrannical 
father.' 

They  had  soon  climbed  the  steep  staircase,  and  were  quite 
rewarded  by  the   magnificent  view  from  the  top,  a  grand 


30-i  '  RIGHT  ONWARD.' 

panorama  of  city  and  river  and  green  Apennines.  Erica  looked 
northward  to  Fiesole  with  a  fast-throbbing  heart.  Yet  it  seemed 
as  if  half  a  lifetime  lay  between  the  passion-tossed  yesterday 
and  the  sad  yet  peaceful  present.  Nor  was  the  feeling  a  mere 
delusion  ;  she  had  indeed  in  those  brief  hours  lived  years  of  the 
spirit  life. 

She  did  not  stay  long  at  that  northern  parapet ;  thoughts 
of  her  own  life  or  even  of  Brian's  would  not  do  just  then.  She 
had  to  think  of  her  father,  to  devote  herself  to  him.  And 
somehow,  though  her  heart  was  sad,  yet  her  happiness  was  real, 
as  they  tried  together  to  make  out  the  various  buildings ;  and 
her  talk  was  unrestrained,  and  even  her  laughter  natural,  not 
forced  ;  for  it  is  possible  to  those  who  really  love  to  throw 
themselves  altogether  into  the  life  of  another,  and  to  lay  aside 
all  thought  of  self 

Once  or  twice  that  day  she  half  feared  that  her  father  must 
guess  all  that  had  happened.  He  was  so  very  careful  of  her, 
so  considerate  ;  and  for  Eaeburn  to  be  more  considerate  meant 
a  great  deal,  for  in  private  he  was  always  the  most  gentle  man 
imaginable.  His  opponents,  who  often  regarded  him  as  a  sort 
of  '  fiend  in  human  shape,'  were  strangely  mistaken  in  their 
estimate  of  his  character.  When  treated  with  discourtesy  or 
unfairness  in  public,  it  was  true  that  he  hit  back  again,  and  hit 
hard  ;  and,  since  even  in  the  nineteenth  century  we  are  so  fool- 
ish ac  to  use  these  weapons  against  the  expression  of  opinions 
we  deem  mischievous,  Raeburn  had  had  a  great  deal  of  practice 
in  this  retaliation.  He  was  a  very  proud  and  a  very  sensitive 
man,  not  blessed  with  overmuch  patience.  But  he  held  hia 
opinions  honestly,  and  had  suffered  much  for  them ;  he  had  a 
real  love  for  humanity,  and  an  almost  passionate  desire  to  better 
his  generation.  To  such  a  man  it  was  no  light  thing  to  be 
deemed  everything  that  is  vile  ;  like  poor  Shelley,  he  found  it 
exceedingly  bitter  to  let  'murderers  and  traitors  take  precedence 
of  him  in  public  opinion.'  People  in  general  took  into  accovint 
all  his  harsh  utterances  (and  some  of  them  were  very  harsh), 
but  they  rarely  thought  anything  about  the  provocation  received, 
the  excessively  hard  life  that  this  man  had  lived,  the  gross 
personal  insults  which  he  had  had  to  put  up  with,  the  galling 
injustice  he  had  had  to  fight  against.  Upon  this  side  of  the 
question  they  just  turned  their  backs,  pooh-poohed  it,  or,  when 
it  was  forced  upon  their  notice,  said  (unanswerable  argument !) 
*  It  couldn't  be  so  r 

"When,  as  they  were  making  the  descent,  Erica  found  the 
strong  hand  stretched  out  for  hers  the  moment  the  way  grew 


'right  onward.*  305 

dark,  wlien  she  was  warned  of  the  slightest  difficulty  by,  'Take 
care,  little  one,  a  narrow  step,'  or,  '  'Tis  rather  broken  here,'  she 
almost  trembled  to  think  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  he 
might  have  learnt  how  matters  really  were.  But  by-and-by  his 
serenity  re-assured  her  ;  had  he  thought  that  she  was  in  trouble, 
his  face  would  not  have  been  so  cloudless. 

And  in  truth  Raeburn,  spite  of  his  keen  observation,  never 
thought  for  a  moment  of  the  true  state  of  the  case.  He  was  a 
very  literal,  unimaginative  man,  and,  having  once  learnt  to 
regard  Brian  as  an  old  family  friend  and  as  his  doctor,  he  never 
dreamed  of  regarding  him  in  the  light  of  his  daughter's  lover. 
Also,  as  is  not  unfrequently  the  case  when  a  man  has  only  one 
child,  he  never  could  take-in  the  fact  that  she  was  quite  grown 
up.  Even  when  he  read  her  articles  in  the  Daily  Revieio,  or 
discussed  the  most  weighty  topics  with  her,  she  was  always 
*  little  son  Eric,'  or  his  '  little  one.'  And  Erica's  unquenchable 
high  spirits  served  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  She  would  as  often 
as  not  end  a  conversation  on  Darwinism  by  a  romp  with 
Friskarina,  or  write  a  very  thoughtful  article  on  ScnUin  de 
Liste,  and  then  spring  up  from  her  desk  and  play  like  any  child 
with  an  India-rubber  ball  nominally  kept  for  children  visitors. 

She  managed  to  tide  over  those  days  bravely  and  even 
cheerfully  for  her  father's  sake.  It  was  easier  when  they  had 
left  Florence,  with  its  over-bright  and  over-sad  memories. 
Peaceful  old  Verona  was  more  in  accordance  with  her  state  of 
mind ;  and  from  thence  they  went  to  Trento,  and  over  the 
Brenner,  passing  Botzen  and  Brixen  in  their  lovely  valley, 
gaining  a  brief  glimpse  of  the  spire-like  Dolomitr  and  gradually 
ascending  the  pass,  leaving  the  river  and  its  yellow  reeds,  and 
passing  through  the  rich  pasture-land,  where  the  fields  were 
bright  with  buttercups  and  daisies — gold  and  silver  of  the 
people's  property,  as  Raeburn  called  them.  Then  on  once 
more  between  crimson  and  purple  porphyry  mountains,  neai-er 
and  nearer  to  the  snowy  mountain  peaks ;  and  at  last,  as  the 
day  drew  to  an  end,  they  descended  again,  and  saw  down  below 
them,  in  the  loveliest  of  valleys,  a  little  town,  its  white  houses 
suffused  by  a  crimson  sunset  glow. 

'  Innsbruck,  madam,  Innsbruck  i '  said  a  fat  old  Tyrolese 
man,  who  had  been  showing  them  all  the  beauties  of  his  beloved 
country  throughout  the  journey. 

And,  though  nothing  could  ever  again  have  for  Erica  the 

SAveet  glamour  of  an  Italian  city,  yet  she  was  glad  now  to  have 

seen  the  last  of  that  sunny  land,  and  welcomed   che  homely 

little   place    with   its   matter-of-fact   houses    and    prosperous 

14 


306  *  RIGHT  ONWARD.' 

comfort.  She  felt,  somehow,  that  it  would  be  easier  to  endure 
now  that  she  was  fairly  out  of  Italy. 

The  day  after  their  arrival  at  Innsbnick  was  Sunday. 
There  was  no  English  service  as  yet,  for  the  season  had  not 
begun,  but  Erica  went  to  the  little  Lutheran  church,  and 
Raeburn,  who  had  never  been  to  a  Lutheran  service,  went  with 
her,  for  the  sake  of  studying  the  congregation,  the  preacher, 
and  the  doctrine.  Also,  perhaps,  because  he  did  not  want  her 
to  feel  lonely  in  a  foreign  place. 

All  her  life  long  Erica  remembered  that  Sunday.  The 
peaceful  little  church  with  its  high  pews,  where  they  sat  to  sing 
and  stood  to  pray,  the  homely  German  pastor  with  his  plain  yet 
forcible  sermon  on  'Das  Gebet,'  the  restful  feeling  of  unity 
which  so  infinitely  outweighed  all  the  trifling  differences,  and 
the  comfoii;  of  the  sweet  old  German  chorales.  The  words  of 
one  of  them  lingered  always  in  her  memory. 

'  Fiihlt  Seel  und  Lieb  ein  Wohl  ergehen 
So  treib  es  mich  zum  Dank  dafiir  ; 
Laszt  du  mich  delne  Werke  Sehen, 
So  sey  mein  Eiihmen  stets  von  dir ; 
Und  find  ich  in  der  Welt  nicht  Euh, 
So  steig  mein  Sehnen  Himmel  zu.' 

After  the  service  was  ended,  they  wandered  out  into  the 
public  gardens  where  birds  were  singing  round  the  statue  of 
Walter  von  der  Vogelveide,  and  a  sparrow,  to  Erica's  great 
delight,  perched  on  his  very  shoulder.  Then  they  left  the 
town  altogether  and  roamed  out  into  the  open  country,  crossing 
the  river  by  a  long  and  curiously  constructed  plank  bridge,  and 
sauntering  along  the  valley  beneath,  the  snowy  mountains,  the 
river  flowing  smoothly  onward,  the  birds  singing,  and  a 
paradise  of  flowers  on  every  side.  It  was  quite  the  hottest  day 
they  had  had,  and  they  wei'e  not  sorry  to  rest  in  the  first  shady 
place  they  came  to. 

'  This  is  the  riglit  way  to  take  pleasure,'  said  Ilacburn,  en- 
joying as  only  an  ardent  lover  of  Nature  can  enjoy  a  mountain 
view.  '  Brief  snatches  in  between  hard  work.  More  than  that 
is  hardly  admissible  in  such  times  as  ours.'  His  words  seemed 
to  them  prophetic  later  on,  for  their  pleasure  was  destined  to 
be  even  briefer  than  they  had  anticipated.  The  hotel  at  which 
they  were  staying  was  being  painted,  Erica  had  a  room  on  the 
second  flooi*,  but  Racburn  had  been  put  at  tlie  top  of  the  house. 
They  had  just  retvmied  from  a  long  drive,  and  were  quietly 
sitting  in  Erica's  room  writing  letters,  thinking  every  moment 


*  rdGHT  OXWAUD.'  307 

that  the  goug  would  sound  for  the  six  o'clock  tahle-cVhote,  when 
a  sound  of  many  voices  outside  made  Raeburn  look  up.  Ho 
Avent  to  the  window. 

'  Hullo  !  a  fire-engine  ! '  he  exclaimed. 

Ei'ica  hastily  joined  him  ;  a  crowd  w^as  gathering  beneath 
the  window,  shouting,  waving,  gesticulating. 

'  Why,  they  are  pointing  up  here  ! '  cried  Erica.  '  The  fire 
must  be  here  ! ' 

She  rushed  across  the  room,  and  opened  the  door ;  the 
whole  place  was  in  an  uproar,  people  rushing  to  and  fro,  cries 
of  '  Feuer !  Feuer ! '  a  waiter  with  scared  face  hurrying  from 
room  to  room  with  the  announcement,  in  broken  English,  '  The 
hotel  is  on  fire  ! '  or,  sometimes,  in  his  haste  and  confusion, 
*  The  fire  is  on  hotel ! '  For  a  moment  Erica's  heart  stood  still ; 
the  very  vagueness  of  the  terror,  the  uncertainty  as  to  the 
extent  of  the  danger  or  the  possibility  of  escape,  was  paralysing. 
Then  with  the  natural  instinct  of  a  book-lover  she  hastily 
picked  up  two  or  three  volumes  from  the  table,  and  begged  her 
father  to  come.  He  made  her  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  and 
shouldering  her  portmanteau,  led  the  way  through  the 
corridors  and  down  the  staircase,  steadily  forcing  a  passage 
through  the  confused  and  terrified  people,  and  never  pausing 
for  an  instant,  not  even  asking  the  whereabouts  of  the  fire,  till 
he  had  got  Erica  safely  out  into  the  little  platz,  and  had  set 
down  her  portmanteau  under  one  of  the  trees. 

They  looked  up  then  and  saw  that  the  whole  of  the  roof 
and  the  attics  of  the  hotel  were  blazing.  Raeburn's  room  was 
immediately  below  and  was  in  great  danger.  A  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  occur  to  him,  a  look  of  dismay  crossed  his  face,  he 
felt  hurriedly  in  his  pocket. 

'  Where  did  I  change  my  coat,  Erica  1 '  he  asked. 

'  You  went  up  to  your  room  to  change  it,  just  before  the 
drive,'  she  replied. 

'  Then,  by  all  that's  unlucky  I've  left  in  it  those  papers  for 
Hasenbalg  !     Wait  here  ;  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.' 

He  hurried  off,  looking  more  anxious  than  Erica  had  ever 
seen  him  look  before.  The  papers  which  he  had  been  asked  to 
deliver  to  Herr  Hasenbalg  in  no  way  concerned  him,  but  they 
had  been  entrusted  to  his  care,  and  were  therefore,  of  course, 
more  to  be  considered  than  the  most  valuable  private  property. 
Much  hindered  by  the  crowd  and  by  the  fire-engine  itself, 
which  had  been  moved  into  the  entrance-hall,  he  at  length 
Succeeded  in  fighting  his  way  past  an  unceasing  procession  of 
furniture    which   was   being   rescued    from    the   flames,   and 


308  'bight  onward.' 

pushing  his  way  up  the  stairs  had  ahnost  gained  his  room, 
when  a  pitiful  cry  reached  his  ears.  It  was  impossible  to  a 
man  of  Raeburn's  nature  not  to  turn  aside ;  the  political 
despatches  might  be  very  important,  but  a  deserted  child  in  a 
burning  house  outweighed  all  other  considerations.  He  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  room  whence  the  cry  had  come ;  the 
scaffolding  outside  had  caught  fire  and  the  flames  were  darting 
in  at  the  window.  Sitting  up  in  a  little  wooden  cot  was  a 
child  of  two  or  three  years  old,  his  baby  face  wild  with 
fright. 

'Poor  bairn  !'  exclaimed  Eaeburn,  taking  him  in  his  strong 
arms.     '  Have  they  forgotten  you  1 ' 

The  child  was  German  and  did  not  understand  a  word,  but 
it  knew  in  a  moment  that  this  man,  so  like  a  fairy-tale  giant, 
was  a  rescuer. 

'  Guter  Riese  I '  it  sobbed,  appealingly. 

The  '  good  giant '  snatched  a  blanket  from  the  cot,  rolled  it 
round  the  shivering  little  bit  of  humanity,  and  carried  him 
down  into  the  platz. 

'  Keep  this  bairnie  till  his  belongings  claim  him,'  he  said, 
putting  his  charge  into  Erica's  arms.  And  then  he  hurried 
back  again,  once  more  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  descending  ward- 
robes and  bedsteads,  and  at  last  reached  his  room.  It  was 
bare  of  all  furniture  ;  the  lighter  things — his  coat  among  them 
—had  been  thrown  out  of  the  window,  the  more  solid  things 
had  been  carried  downstairs.  He  stood  there  baffled  and  for 
once  in  his  life  bewildered. 

Half-choked  with  the  smoke,  he  crosse.l  the  room  and 
looked  out  of  the  wdndow,  the  hot  breath  of  the  flames  from 
the  scaffolding  scorching  his  face.  But  looking  through  that 
frame  of  fire,  he  saw  that  a  cordon  had  been  drawn  round  the 
indiscriminate  piles  of  rescued  property,  that  the  military  had 
been  called  out,  and  that  the  most  perfect  order  prevailed. 
There  was  still  a  chance  that  he  might  recover  the  lost  papers  ! 
Then,  as  there  was  no  knowing  that  the  roof  would  not  fall  in 
and  crush  him,  he  made  the  best  of  his  way  down  agam  among 
the  still  flowing  stream  of  furniture. 

An  immense  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  square  outside  ;  the 
awe-struck  murmurs  and  exclamations  sounded  like  the  roar  of 
distant  thunder,  and  the  shouts  of  '  AVasser !  Wasser  ! '  alter- 
nated with  the  winding  of  bugles,  as  the  soldiers  moved  now  in 
one  direction,  now  in  another,  their  bright  uniforms  and  the 
shining  helmets  of  the  fire-brig'jde  men  flashing  liither  and 
thither   among  the    darlv   mass  of  spectators.     Overhead    the 


'RIGHT  ONWARD.'  309 

flames  raged,  while  the  wind  blew  down  bits  of  burning  tinder 
upon  the  crowd.  Erica,  wedged  in  among  the  friendly  Tyrolese 
people,  watched  anxiously  for  her  father,  not  quite  able  to  be- 
lieve his  assurance  that  there  was  no  danger.  When  at  length 
she  saw  the  tall  commanding  figure  emerge  from  the  burning 
hotel,  the  white  head  towering  over  the  crowd,  her  heart  gave 
a  great  bound  of  relief.  But  she  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  had 
been  unsuccessful. 

'  It  must   have  been  thrown  out  of  the  window,'  he  said, 
elbowing  his  way  up  to    her.       *  The   room   was    quite   bare, 
carpet  and  all  gone,  nothing  to  be  found  but  these  valuables, 
and  with  a  smile,    he  held   iip  the  last  number  of  the  Idol- 
Breaker,  and  a  tooth-brush. 

'They  arc  taking  great  care  of  the  things,'  said  Erica. 
*  Perhaps  Ave  shall  find  it  by-and-by.' 

*  We  must  find  it,'  said  Raeburn,  his  lips  forming  into  the 
curve  of  resoluteness  which  they  were  wont  to  assume  when 
any  difficiilty  arose  to  be  grappled  with.  '  What  has  become  of 
the  bairn  % ' 

'  A  nurse  cauie  up  and  claimed  it,  and  was  overwhelmingly 
grateful  to  you  for  your  rescue.  She  had  put  the  child  to  bed 
early  and  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the  Gardens.  Oh,  look,  how 
the  fire  is  spreading  ! ' 

'  That  scaffolding  is  terribly  against  saving  it,  and  the  wind 
is  high,  too,'  said  Raeburn,  scanning  the  place  all  over  with  his 
keen  eyes.  Then,  as  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him,  he  sud- 
denly hurried  forward  once  more,  and  Erica  saw  him  speaking 
to  two  fire-brigade  men.  In  another  minute  the  soldiers 
motioned  the  crowd  further  back,  llaeburn  rejoined  Erica,  and, 
picking  up  her  portmanteau,  took  her  across  the  road  to  the 
steps  of  a  neighbouring  hotel.  '  I've  suggested  that  they  should 
cut  down  the  scaffolding,'  he  said  ;  '  it  is  the  only  chance  of 
saving  the  place.' 

The  whole  of  the  woodwork  was  now  on  fire ;  to  cut  it  down 
was  a  somewhat  dangerous  task,  but  the  men  worked  gallantly, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  huge  blazing  frame,  with  its  poles 
and  cross-poles,  ladders  and  platforms,  swayed,  quivered,  then 
fell  forward  with  a  crash  into  tlie  garden  beyond. 

Raeburn  had,  as  usual,  attracted  to  himself  the  person  most 
worth  talking  to  in  the  crowd,  a  shrewd-looking  inhabitant 
of  Innsbruck,  spectacled  and  somewhat  sallow,  but  with  a  face 
which  was  full  of  intellect.  He  learnt  that,  although  no  one 
co\ild  speak  positively  as  to  the  origin  of  the  fire,  it  was  more 
than  probable  that  it  had  been  no  mere  accident.     The  very 


310  '  EIGHT  ONWARD.* 

Sunday  before,  at  exactly  the  same  hour,  a  lai-ge  factory  had 
been  entirely  destroyed  by  fire,  and  it  needed  no  very  deep 
thinker  to  discover  that  a  Sunday  evening,  when  every  one 
would  be  out  of  doors  keeping  holiday,  and  the  fire-brigade  men 
scattered  and  hard  to  summon,  Avas  the  very  time  for  in- 
cendiarism. They  learnt  much  from  the  shrewd  citizen  about 
the  general  condition  of  the  place,  which  seemed  outwardly 
too  peaceful  and  prosperous  for  such  wild  and  senseless  out- 
breaks. 

'  If,  as  seems  probable,  this  is  the  act  of  some  crazy 
socialist,  he  has  unwittingly  done  harm  to  the  cause  of  refortn 
in  general,'  said  Raeburn  to  Erica,  when  the  informant  had 
passed  on.  '  Those  papers  for  Hasenbalg  were  important  ones, 
and,  if  laid  hold  of  by  vmfriendly  hands,  might  do  untold  harm. 
Socialism  is  the  most  foolish  system  on  earth.  Inevitably  it 
turns  to  this  sort  of  violence  when  the  uneducated  have  seized 
on  its  main  idea.' 

'  After  all,  I  believe  they  will  save  the  house,'  said  Erica. 
'  Just  look  at  those  men  on  the  top,  how  splendidly  they  are 
working ! ' 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  grand,  though  a  very  horrible  sight  to 
see  the  dark  forms  toiling  away,  hewing  down  the  burning 
rafters  with  an  absolute  disregard  to  their  personal  safety. 
These  were  not  firemen,  but  volunteers — chimney-sweeps,  as 
one  of  the  crowd  informed  Ilaeburn — and  it  was  in  the  main 
owing  to  their  exertions  that  the  fire  was  at  length  ex- 
tinguished. 

After  the  excitement  was  over,  they  went  into  the  neigh- 
bouring hotel,  where  there  was  some  difficulty  in  obtaining 
rooms,  as  all  the  burnt-ovit  people  had  taken  refuge  there. 
However,  the  utmost  hospitality  and  friendliness  prevailed,  and 
even  hungry  Englishmen,  cheated  of  their  dinner,  were  patient 
for  once,  while  the  over-taxed  waiters  hurried  to  and  fro,  pre- 
paring for  the  second  and  quite  luiexpccted  table-cVlwte. 
Every  one  had  something  to  tell  either  of  his  escape  or  his 
losses.  One  lady  had  seen  her  nightgown  thrown  out  of  the 
window,  and  had  managed  adroitly  to  catch  it ;  some  one  else 
on  rushing  up  to  find  his  purse  had  been  deluged  by  the  fire- 
engine ;  and  Raeburn's  story  of  the  little  German  boy  excited 
great  interest.  The  visitors  were  inclined  to  make  a  hero  of 
him.  Once,  when  he  had  left  the  room.  Erica  heard  a  dis- 
cussion about  him  with  no  little  amusement. 

'  Who  is  the  very  tall,  white-haired  man  1 ' 

'  The  one  who  saved  the  child  ]     I  believe  he  must  be  the 


*  BIGHT  OK  WARD,'  311 

Bishop  of  Stencborougli ;  he  is  travelling  in  the  Tyrol,  I  know, 
and  I'm  sure  that  man  is  a  somebody.  So  much  dignity  and 
such  power  over  everybody  !  didn't  you  see  the  way  the  captain 
of  the  fire-brigade  deferred  to  him  1 ' 

'  Well,  now  I  think  of  it,'  replied  the  other,  *  he  has  an 
earnest,  devotional  sort  of  face;  perhaps  you're  right.  I'll 
speak  to  him  when  he  coines  back.  Ah  ! '  in  a  lower  voice, 
*  there  he  is  !  and — confound  it !  he's  got  no  gaiters  !  Good- 
bye to  my  visions  of  life-long  friendship  and  a  comfortable 
living  for  Dick  ! ' 

In  spite  of  his  anxiety  about  the  lost  packet,  Eaeburn 
laughed  heartily  over  Erica's  account  of  this  convei-sation.  He 
had  obtained  leave  to  search  the  deserted  hotel,  and  a  little 
before  ten  o'clock  they  made  their  way  across  the  sqviare,  over 
planks  and  charred  raftei-s,  broken  glass,  and  pools  of  water, 
which  were  hard  to  steer  through  in  the  darkness.  The  fire 
was  now  quite  out,  and  they  were  beginning  to  move  the 
furniture  in  again,  but  the  place  had  been  entirely  dismantled, 
and  looked  eerie  and  forlorn.  On  the  staircase  was  a  de- 
capitated statue,  and  broken  and  crushed  plants  were  strewn 
about.  Erica's  room  was  quite  bare  of  furniture,  nor  could 
she  find  any  of  the  things  she  wanted.  The  pen  with  which 
she  had  been  writing  lay  on  the  floor,  and  also  a  Japanese  fan 
soaked  with  water,  but  neither  of  these  were  very  serviceable 
articles  to  a  person  bereft  of  every  toilet  requisite. 

'  I  shall  have  to  lie  down  to-night  like  a  dog,  and  get  up  in 
the  morning,  and  shake  myself,'  she  said,  laughing. 

And  probably  a  good  many  people  in  Innsbruck  were  that 
evening  in  like  case. 

Notwithstanding  the  discomforts,  however,  and  the  past 
excitement,  that  was  the  first  night  in  which  Erica  had  really 
slept  since  the  day  at  Fiesole,  the  first  night  unbroken  by 
dreams  about  Brian,  unhaunted  by  that  blanched,  rigid  face, 
which  had  stamped  its  image  indelibly  upon  her  brain  in  the 
amphitheatre.  She  awoke,  too,  without  that  almost  intolerable 
dread  of  the  coming  day  which  had  hitherto  made  early 
morning  hateful  to  her.  It  was  everything  to  have  an  actual 
and  practicable  duty  ready  to  hand,  eveiything  to  have  a  busy 
present  which  would  crowd  out  past  and  future,  if  only  for  a 
few  hours.  Also  the  disaster  had  its  comic  side.  Through  the 
thin  partition  she  could  hear  distinctly  the  complaints  of  the 
people  in  the  next  room. 

'  How  are  we  to  get  on  with  uo  soap  ]  Do  go  and  see  if 
James  has  any.' 


312  'eight  onward.' 

Then  came  steps  in  the  passage,  and  a  loud  knock  at  the 
ojjposite  door. 
'  James ! ' 

No  answer.     A  furiously  loud  second  knock. 
'  James  ! ' 
'  What's  the  matter  !     Another  fire  ]  * 

*  Have  you  any  soap  1 ' 
'  Any  wliat  1 '  sleepily. 

*  Any  soap  ?  ' 

Apparently  James  was  not  the  happy  possessor  of  that 
necessary  of  life,  for  the  steps  retreated,  and  the  bell  was 
violently  rung. 

'  "  What,  no  soap  ] "  '  exclaimed  Erica,  laughing ;  '  "  so  he 
died,  and  she  very  imprudently  married  the  barber,  &c."  ' 

The  chambermaid  came  to  answer  the  bell. 

'Send  some  one  to  the  nearest  shop,  please,  and  get  me 
some  soap.' 

'And  a  sponge,'  said  another. 

'  And  a  brush  and  comb,'  said  the  first. 

'  Oh !  and  some  hair-pins,'  echoed  the  other.  '  Why,  dis- 
traction !  she  doesn't  understand  a  word  !  What's  the  German 
for  soap  1     Give  me  Travel  Talk.' 

*  It's  burnt.' 

'  Well,  then,  show  her  the  soap-dish  !  Brush  your  hair 
with  your  hands  !  This  is  something  between  Dumb  Crambo 
and  Mulberry  Bush  ! ' 

The  whole  day  was  not  unlike  a  fatiguing  game  of  hide- 
and-seek,  and  had  it  not  been  for  llaeburn's  great  anxiety,  it 
would  have  been  exceedingly  amusing.  Everything  was  now 
inside  the  hotel  again,  but  of  course  in  the  wildest  confusion. 
The  personal  property  of  the  visitors  was  placed,  as  it  came  to 
light,  in  the  hall-porter's  little  room  ;  but  things  were  to  be 
met  with  in  all  directions.  At  ten  o'clock,  one  of  Raeburn's 
boots  was  found  on  the  third  story ;  in  the  evening,  its  fellow 
turned  up  in  the  entrance-hall.  Distracted  tourists  were  to  be 
seen  in  all  directions,  buiTowing  under  heaps  of  clothes,  or 
vainly  opening  cupboards  and  drawers,  and  the  delight  of 
finding  even  the  most  trifling  possession  was  great.  For  hours 
liacburn  and  Erica  searched  for  the  lost  papers  in  vain.  At 
length,  in  the  evening,  the  coat  was  found  ;  but,  alas  !  the 
pocket  was  empty. 

'The  envelope  must  have  been  taken  out,'  said  Erica. 
'Was  it  directed?' 

'  Unfortunately,  yes,'  said  llaeburn.     '  But,  after  all,   there 


'RlGUr  ONWARD.  313 

is  still  a  chance  that  it  may  have  tumbled  out  as  the  coat  fell. 
If  so,  we  may  fiud  it  elsewhere.  I've  great  faith  in  the  honesty 
of  these  lunsbnick  people,  notwithstanding  the  craze  of  some 
of  them  that  property  is  theft.  That  worthy  man  yesterday 
was  right,  I  expect.  I  hear  that  the  proprietor  had  had  a 
threatening  letter  not  long  ago  to  this  effect, — 

'•  Sein  thun  miser  Dreiszig, 
Schiiren  thun  wir  fleiszig. 
Dem  Armen  that's  nichts, 
Dem  Eeichen  schad'ts  nichts." 

That  is  tolerably  unmistakable,  I  think.  I'll  have  it  in  next 
week's  Idol,  with  an  article  on  the  folly  of  Socialism.' 

Judicious  offers  of  reward  failed  to  bring  the  papers  to 
light,  and  Raeburn  was  so  much  vexed  about  it,  and  so  deter- 
mined to  search  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  hotel,  that  it 
was  hard  to  get  him  away  even  for  meals.  Erica  could  not 
help  feeling  that  it  was  hard  that  the  brief  days  of  relaxation 
he  had  allowed  himself  should  be  so  entiuely  spoilt. 

'  Now,  if  I  were  a  model  daughter,  I  should  dream  where 
to  find  the  thing,'  she  said,  laughingly,  as  she  wished  him 
good-night. 

She  did  not  dream  at  all,  but  she  was  up  as  soon  as  it  was 
light,  searching  once  more  with  minute  faithfulness  in  every 
part  of  the  hotel  At  length  she  came  to  a  room  piled  from 
floor  to  ceiling  with  linen,  bhankets,  and  coverlets. 

'Have  all  these  been  shaken'?'  she  asked  of  the  maid- 
servant who  had  been  helping  her. 

'  Well,  not  shaken,  I  think,'  owned  the  servant.  '  We  were 
in  a  hurry,  you  see  ;  but  they  are  all  fresh  folded.' 

'  It  might  have  slipped  into  one  of  them,'  said  Erica. 
'  Help  me  to  shake  every  one  of  these,  and  I  will  give  you  two 
gulden.' 

It  was  hard  work,  and  somewhat  hopeless  work ;  but  Erica 
set  about  it  with  all  the  earnestness  and  thoroughness  of  her 
Raeburn  nature,  and  at  length  came  her  reward.  At  the  very 
bottom  of  the  huge  pile  they  came  to  a  counterpane,  and,  as 
they  opened  it,  out  fell  the  large,  thick  envelope  directed  to 
Hei-r  Hasenbalg.  With  a  cry  of  joy,  Erica  snatched  it  up, 
pressed  double  the  reward  into  the  hands  of  the  delighted 
servant,  and  flew  in  search  of  her  father.  She  found  him 
groping  in  a  great  heap  of  miscellaneovis  goods  in  the  porter's 
room. 

♦I've  found  my  razors,'  he  said,  looking  up,'  'and  every 


314  '  RIGHT  ONWARD.' 

twopeniiy-hairpGnny  thing  out  of  my  travcl]iiig-I);ig ;  but  the 
papers,  of  course,  are  nowhere.' 

'What's  your  definition  of  "nowhere?"'  asked  Erica, 
laughingly  covering  his  eyes,  while  she  slipped  the  envelope 
into  his  hand. 

His  look  of  relief  made  her  happier  than  she  had  been  for 
days.  He  stood  \ip  quickly,  and  turned  the  envelope  over  to 
see  that  it  had  not  been  tampered  with. 

'  This  is  my  definition  of  a  dear,  good  bairn,'  he  said, 
putting  his  hand  on  her  head.  '  You  have  taken  a  hundred- 
weight off  my  heart,  Eric.     "Where  did  you  find  it  1 ' 

She  described  her  search  to  him. 

'  Well,  now,  nothing  will  satisfy  me  but  a  mountain,'  said 
Eaeburn.  'Are  you  too  tired  ?  We  could  have  a  good  climb 
before  dinner.' 

'  Oh,  let  us  !'  she  exclaimed.  *  I  have  had  such  a  longing 
to  get  nearer  the  snow.' 

Each  felt  that  the  holiday  had  now  begun.  They  threw 
care  to  the  winds,  and  gave  themselves  up  altogether  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  loveliest  walk  they  had  ever  taken.  Crossing 
the  Kreuzer  bridge,  they  made  their  way  past  lit^^le  wooden 
chalets,  through,  groves  of  oak  where  the  svmlight  came 
flickering  in  between  the  leaves,  through  pine-woods  whose 
long  vistas  were  solemn  as  cathedral  aisles,  until  at  last  they 
gained  the  summit  of  the  lower  range  of  hills,  from  which  was 
a  glorious  view  on  every  hand.  Down  below  lay  the  little 
town  which  would  be  for  ever  memorable  to  them ;  while  above 
them  rose  the  grand  chain  of  snowy  mountains  which  still 
seemed  as  lofty  and  unapproachable  as  ever,  though  they 
themselves  were  on  high  ground.  Soft  and  velvety  and  green 
lay  that  great  upward  sweep  in  the  sunshine,  shaded  in  some 
places  by  a  dark  patch  of  pines,  or  gleaming  with  a  heap  of 
fallen  snow.  Here  and  there  some  deep  rugged  cleft  would  be 
filled  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  glcammg  whiteness,  while 
above,  crowning  the  steep  and  barren  height,  the  snow  reigned 
supreme,  unmclted  as  yet  even  by  the  hot  May  siin. 

And  Erica  was,  in  spite  of  her  sorrow,  unfeignedly  happy. 
She  could  not  be  sad  when  her  father  was  so  thoroughly  en- 
joying himself,  when  for  once  he  was  altogether  removed  from 
the  baleful  influences  of  hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness.  Here  —  instead  of  sweeping  denunciations,  which  in- 
variably drove  him,  as  they  drove  even  the  patient  Job,  to  an 
assertion  of  his  own  righteousness — there  was  tlie  silent  yet 
inost  real  teaching  of  Nature ;  and  he  must  be  a  smallsouled 


•  RIGHT  ONWARD.'  315 

man,  indeed,  who,  in  the  presence  of  grand  mountain  scenery, 
cannot  forget  his  own  personality,  realising  the  infinite  beauty 
and  tlie  unspeakable  greatness  of  Nature.  Erica's  father  was 
unquestionably  a  large-souled  man,  in  every  sense  of  the  word 
a  great  man  ;  but  the  best  man  in  the  Avorld  is  to  a  great 
extent  dependent  on  circumstance,  and  the  circumstances  of 
Raeburn's  life  had  been  exceptionally  hard.  Only  two  things 
on  earth  acted  as  a  check  upon  the  one  great  fault  which 
marred  an  otherwise  fine  character.  Beauty  of  scenery  made 
him  for  the  time  being  as  humble  as  a  child,  and  the  devotion 
of  his  own  followers  sometimes  made  him  ask  himself  whether 
he  were  worthy  of  such  love. 

The  following  day  the  papers,  which  had  caused  them  so 
much  trouble  and  anxiety,  were  safely  delivered  to  Herr 
Hasenbalg  at  Salzburg ;  and  then  came  one  more  perfect 
holiday.  In  the  months  that  followed  Erica  loved  just  to  shut 
her  eyes  and  forget  a  sad  or  stormy  present,  to  call  up  once 
more  the  remembrance  of  that  time.  To  the  minutest  details 
she  always  remembered  it.  The  start  in  the  early  morning, 
which  had  seemed  cloudy  and  unpromising,  the  long,  beautiful 
drive  to  Berchtesgaden,  and  on  beyond  to  the  Konigsce.  The 
perfect  and  unbroken  calm  of  that  loveliest  of  lakes,  so 
jealously  guarded  by  its  chain  of  mountains  that  only  in  two 
places  is  it  possible  to  effect  a  landing.  The  dark  pines  and 
silvery  birches  clothing  the  sides  of  the  mountains ;  the  grey 
limestone  cliffs  rising  steep  and  sheer  from  the  water,  in  which 
their  slim,  green  skiff  glided  swiftly  on,  the  oars,  which  were 
more  like  long,  brown  spades,  pulled  by  a  man  and  woman, 
who  took  it  in  turns  to  sit  and  stand  :  the  man  with  gay  tie 
and  waistband,  Tyrolese  hat  and  weaving  feather ;  the  woman 
wearing  a  similar  hat  over  a  gaily-embroidered  head-dress, 
ample  white  sleeves,  a  square-cut  bodice,  and  blue  plaid  skirt. 

Here  and  there  a  group  of  light-green  larches  just  caught 
the  sunshine,  or  a  little  boat  coming  in  the  opposite  direction 
would  suddenly  glide  round  one  of  the  bends  in  the  lake,  its 
oars  splashing  a  wide  line  of  silvery  brightness  in  the  calm 
water,  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  dark-blue  prow.  Then,  as  they 
rounded  one  of  the  abrupt  curves,  came  a  glorious  view  of 
snow-mountains — blue  shadows  below,  and  above,  in  the  sun- 
shine, the  most  dazzling  whiteness,  while  close  to  the  water, 
from  the  sheer  precipice  of  grey  rock,  sprang  here  and  there  a 
hardy  pine. 

They  landed  beside  a  quaint  little  church  with  cupolas, 
and  had  an  exquisite  walk  throiigh  the  woods  just  at  the  foot 


316  'eight  onward.* 

of  the  mountains,  ^\here  the  wealth  of  gentians  and  other 
Alpine  flowers  made  Eaeburn's  felicity  complete. 

Presently  came  the  return  to  the  little  boat,  and  a  quiet 
row  back  to  the  landing-place,  whei-e  their  carriage  awaited 
them.  And  then  followed  the  delightful  drive  home,  past  the 
river,  which  tossed  its  green  waters  here  and  there  into  snow- 
like wreaths  of  foam,  over  quaint  and  shaky  wooden  bridges, 
between  gi-ey  rocks  and  groves  of  plane-trees,  whose  trunks 
Avere  half-veiled  in  golden-brown  moss.  Then  on  beneath  a 
hill  covered  with  young  pines,  which  gi-ew  to  the  very  road- 
side, catching  far-away  glimpses  of  a  darkened  and  mysterious 
sky  through  the  forest  of  stems.  Then  past  larger  and  taller 
pine-ti-ees,  which,  standing  further  apart,  let  in  more  sky,  and 
left  space  for  the  brown  earth  to  be  flecked  with  sunshine. 
And  here,  in  the  most  peaceful  of  all  country  regions,  they  met 
a  handsome-looking  peasant,  in  gay  Tyrolese  attire,  much 
adorned  with  silver  chains,  since  it  was  Ascension  Day  and  a 
festival.     He  was  leading  by  the  hand  his  little  daughter, 

'  That  is  a  peaceful  lot,'  said  Racburn,  glancing  at  them. 
'  Would  we  like  to  change  places  with  them,  little  son  Eric  V 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  head,  but  fell,  nevertheless, 
into  a  reverie,  wondering  what  such  a  character  as  her  father's 
would  have  been  under  less  hard  circumstances,  trying  to 
picture  a  possible  life  in  that  sheltered  green  valley.  All  was 
so  perfectly  peaceful ;  the  very  river  grew  broader  and  calmer, 
cattle  grazed  by  the  roadside,  women  walked  slowly  along  with 
their  knitting  in  their  hands,  the  fruit-trees  were  white  with 
blossom.  As  they  reached  the  pretty  village  of  Bcrchtesgaden 
the  sun  Avas  setting,  the  square  comfortable-looking  white 
houses,  with  their  broad  dark  eaves  and  balconies,  were  bathed 
in  a  rosy  glow,  the  two  spires  of  the  little  church  stood  out 
darkly  against  the  evening  sky ;  in  the  platz  women  were 
filling  their  pitchers  at  a  stone  fountain  made  in  the  shape  of  a 
rampant  lion,  while  others  were  kneeling  before  the  calvary  at 
the  entrance  to  the  village,  praying  with  the  reverence  which 
is  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  Tyrolese.  Towering  above 
all  in  the  background  rose  the  two  Wartzmann  peaks,  standing 
there  white  and  majestic  like  guardian  angels. 

•What  foolish  being  called  seven  the  perfect  number?' 
said  Raeburn,  turning  back  from  a  last  look  at  the  twin  moun- 
tains which  were  now  assuming  their  cloud  caps.  '  Two  is  the 
perfect  i}umber,  is  it  not,  little  oneV 

She  smiled,  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

Then  came  a  wild,  desolate  part  of  the  road,  which  passed 


TUE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL,  317 

through  a  valley  shut  in  on  all  sides  by  mountains,  some  of 
them  snowy,  all  wild  and  precipitous,  and  looking  strangely 
desolate  in  the  falling  light.  Erica  could  not  help  contrasting 
it  with  the  view  from  the  amphitheatre  at  Fiesole,  of  that 
wider  amphitheatre  of  green  hills  all  glowing  with  light  and 
love.  But  presently  came  more  peaceful  glimpses ;  pretty 
little  Schellenburg  with  its  serpentine  river  winding  again  and 
again  through  the  village  street,  and  the  happy-looking  pea- 
sants chatting  at  their  doors  with  here  and  there  a  Avhite- 
cappcd  baby  made  much  of  by  all. 

At  last  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  they  reached  Salzburg 
once  more.  But  the  pleasures  of  the  day  were  not  yet  over, 
for  as  they  drew  up  at  the  door  of  their  hotel  a  well-known 
figure  suddenly  emerged  from  the  porch  and  hurried  towards 
the  carriage, 

'  Unexpected  as  a  meteor,'  said  a  hearty  voice,  in  slightly 
foreign  accents.  '  Well,  my  good  friend,  well,  my  guardian 
angel,  how  are  you  both  1  We  meet  under  more  auspicious 
circumstances  this  timel' 

It  was  Eric  Haeberlein. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  MOST  UXKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL, 

Those  who  persecuted  them  supposed  of  course  that  they  were  de- 
fending Christianity,  but  Cliiistianity  can  be  defended  in  no  such  way. 
It  forbids  all  persecution — all  prosecution  for  the  sake  of  religion.  Force 
cannot  possibly  propagate  the  truth  or  produce  the  faith,  or  promote 
the  love  m  wliich  the  Gospel  consists.  .  .  .  Persecution  can  never  arise 
from  zeal  for  the  Gospel  as  truth — from  zeal  for  the  Gospel  properly 
understood.  If  ever  due  to  zeal  in  any  measure,  and  not  to  pride, 
selfishness,  anger,  ambition,  and  other  hateful  lusts  .  .  ,  it  must  be  to  a 
zeal  which  is  in  alliance  with  error.  .  .  .  The  men  [atheists]  therefore, 
who,  by  their  courage  and  endurance  were  specially  instrxmiental  in 
convincing  their  countiymen  that  persecution  for  the  avowal  and  advo- 
cacy even  of  atheism  is  a  folly  and  a  crime,  have  really  rendered  a  service 
to  the  cause  of  Christian  truth,  and  their  names  will  not  be  recorded 
without  honour  when  the  history  of  our  century  is  impartially  written. 

Baird  Lectures,  1877. 
R.  Flixt,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Divinity,  Edinburgh, 

A  FEW  days  later  the  brief  holiday  ended,  and  father  and 
daughter  were  both  hard  at  work  again  in  London.  They  had 
crossed  from  Antwerp  by  night,  and  had  reached  home  about 
ten  o'clock,  to  find  the  usual  busy  life  awaiting  them. 


318  THE  MOaT  UNKINJJE5T  CUT  OF  ALL, 

Tom  and  Aunt  Jean,  who  had  been  very  dull  in  their 
absence,  were  delighted  to  have  them  back  again ;  and 
tliough  the  ah"  was  thick  with  coming  troubles,  yet  it  was 
nevertheless  a  real  homecoming,  while  Erica,  in  spite  of  her 
hidden  sorrow,  had  a  very  real  enjoyment  in  describing  her 
first  foreign  tour.  They  were  making  a  late  breakfast  while 
she  talked,  Raeburn  being  more  or  less  absorbed  in  the  Daily 
lieview. 

'  You  see  such  an  early  newspaper  is  a  luxury  now,'  said 
Erica.  '  Not  that  he's  been  behaving  well  abroad.  He 
promised  me  when  we  started  that  he'd  eschew  newspapers 
altogether,  and  give  his  brain  an  entire  rest ;  but  there  is  a 
beguiling  reading-room  at  Florence,  and  there  was  no  keeping 
him  away  from  it.' 

'  What's  that  ?  What  are  you  saying  1 '  said  rtacburn, 
absently. 

'  That  very  soon,  father,  you  will  be  as  absent-minded  as 
King  Stars-and-Garters  in  the  fairy  tale,  who  ouc  day,  in  a  fit 
of  abstraction,  buttered  his  newspaper,  and  tried  to  read  his 
toast.' 

liaeburn  laughed,  and  threw  down  the  Daily  Review. 

'  Saucier  than  ever,  isn't  she,  Tom  %  Well,  we've  come 
back  to  a  few  disagreeables  ;  but  then  we've  come  back,  thank 
— man  !  to  roast  beef  and  Turkey  towels,  and  after  kick- 
shaws and  table  napkins,  one  knows  how  to  aj^preciatc  such 
things.' 

'  We  could  have  done  with  your  kickshaws  here,'  said  Tom, 
'  If  you  hadn't  come  back  soon.  Erica,  I  should  have  gone  to 
the  bad  altogether;  for  home-life,  Avith  the  cook  to  cater  for 
one,  is  intolerable.  That  creature  has  only  two  ideas  in  her 
head  !  We  rang  the  changes  on  rice  and  stewed  rhubarb.  The 
rhubarb  in  its  oldest  stage  came  up  four  days  running.  We 
called  it  the  widow's  cruse]  Then  the  servants  would  make  a 
point  of  eating  onions  for  supper,  so  that  the  house  was  in- 
sufferable. And  at  last  we  were  driven  from  pillar  to  post  by 
a  dreadful  process  called  house-cleaning,  in  which,  undoubtedly, 
life  is  not  worth  living.  In  the  end,  Air.  Osmond  took  pity  on 
me,  and  lent  me  Brian's  study.  Imagine  heretical  writings 
emanating  from  that  room  ! ' 

This  led  the  conversation  round  to  Brian's  visit  to  Florence, 
and  Erica  was  not  sorry  to  be  interrupted  by  a  note  from  Mr. 
Bircham,  requesting  her  to  write  an  article  on  the  Kilbcggan 
murder.  She  found  that  the  wheels  of  the  household  machinery 
would  need  a  good  deal  of  attention  before  they  would  move 


THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL.  319 

as  smoothly  as  she  generally  contrived  to  make  them.  Things 
had  somehow  'got  to  wrongs'  in  her  absence.  And  when  at 
length  she  thought  everything  was  in  train,  and  had  got 
thoronghly  into  the  spirit  of  a  descriptive  article  on  the  Irish 
tragedy,  the  cook  of  two  ideas  interrnpted  her  with  what 
Sijemed,  in  contrast,  the  most  trivial  of  matters. 

'  If  you  please,  miss,'  she  said,  coming  into  the  green-room 
just  as  the  three  villains  in  black  masks  were  in  the  act  of 
killing  their  victim,  '  I  thought  you'd  wish  to  know  that  we 
are  wanting  a  new  set  of  kitchen-cloths  ;  and  if  you'll  excuse 
me  mentioning  it,  miss,  there's  Jane,  miss,  using  glass-cloths 
as  tea-cloths,  and  dusters  as  knife-cloths.' 

Erica  looked  slightly  distracted,  but  diverted  her  mind 
from  the  state  of  Ireland  to  the  state  of  the  household  linen, 
and,  when  left  alone  once  more,  laughed  to  herself  at  the  in- 
congruity of  the  two  subjects. 

It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  before  Brian  returned  from 
Switzerland.  Erica  knew  that  he  was  in  the  well-known 
house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  square,  and  through  the 
trees  in  the  garden  they  could  see  each  the  other's  place  of 
residence.  It  was  a  sort  of  nineteenth  century  version  of  the 
Rhine  legend,  in  Avhich  the  knight  of  Rolandseck  looked  down 
upon  Nomenwerth,  where  his  lady-love  was  immured  in  a 
convent. 

She  had  rather  dreaded  the  first  meeting,  but,  when  it 
came,  she  felt  nothing  of  what  she  had  feared.  She  was  in 
the  habit  of  going  on  Sunday  morning  to  the  eight  o'clock 
service  at  the  church  in  the  square.  It  was  nearer  than 
Charles  Osmond's  church,  and  the  hour  interfered  less  with 
household  arrangements.  Just  at  the  corner  of  the  square,  on 
the  morning  of  Trinity  Sunday,  she  met  Brian.  Her  heart 
beat  quickly  as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  beai'ing  which  set  her  entirely  at  her  ease  after 
just  the  first  minute.  He  looked  much  older,  and  a  certain 
restlessness  in  look  and  manner  had  quite  left  him,  giving 
place  to  a  peculiar  calm  not  unlike  his  father's  expression. 
it  was  the  expression  which  a  man  bears  when  he  has  lost  the 
desire  of  his  heart,  yet  manfully  struggles  on,  allowing  no 
bitterness  to  steal  in,  fiicing  uniliuciungly  the  greyness  of  a 
crippled  life.  Somehow,  joining  in  that  thanksgiving  service 
seemed  to  give  them  the  true  key-note  for  their  divided 
lives.  As  they  came  out  into  the  porch,  he  asked  her  a 
question. 

'  You  are  an  authority  on  quotations,   I  know ;  my  father 


320  THE  MOST  LNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL. 

wants  to  verify  one  for  his  sermon  this  morning.     Can  you 
help  him  1  it  is  this  : — 

'"Eevealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 

The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise." ' 

'It  is  "Whittier,  I  know,'  said  Erica,  prom{>tly  ;  'and  I 
think  it  is  in  a  poem  called  "  Trinitas."  Come  home  with  me, 
and  we  will  hunt  for  it.' 

So  they  walked  back  together  silently,  and  found  the 
poem,  and  at  Raeburn's  request  Brian  stayed  to  breakfast,  and 
fell  back  naturally  into  his  old  jilace  with  them  all. 

The  following  day  Eaeburn  had  to  attend  a  meeting  in  the 
north  of  England ;  he  returned  on  the  Tuesday  afternoon, 
looking,  Erica  fancied,  tired  and  overdone. 

'  Railway  journeys  are  not  quite  the  rest  they  once  were  to 
me,'  he  confessed,  throwing  himself  down  in  a  cliair  by  the 
open  window,  while  she  brought  him  some  tea.  '  This  is  very 
beguiling,  little  one ;  but  see,  I've  all  these  letters  to  answer 
before  five.' 

'  Your  train  must  have  been  very  late.' 

'  Yes,  there  was  a  block  on  the  line,  and  we  stopped  for 
half-an-hour  in  the  middle  of  a  bean-field — bliss  that  a  Lon- 
doner can't  often  enjoy.' 

'  Did  you  get  out  V 

'  Oh,  yes,  and  sat  upon  the  fence  and  meditated,  to  the 
great  delectation  of  my  olfactory  nerves,' 

Erica's  laugh  was  checked  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  The 
servant  announced  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see  Miss 
Eaeburn. 

'  Some  message  from  Mr.  Bircham,  I  expect,'  said  Erica  to 
her  father.  '  Ask  him  upstairs,  please.  I  only  hope  he  doesn't 
want  me  to  write  another  article  at  the  eleventh  hour.  If  it's 
the  little  Irish  sub-editor,  you  must  be  very  polite  to  him, 
father,  for  he  has  been  kind  to  me.' 

But  it  was  no  message  from  the  Daily  Review  office;  a  perfect 
stranger  was  shown  into  the  room. 

He  bowed  slightly  as  he  entered. 

'  Are  you  Miss  Erica  Eaeburn  1'  he  asked,  coming  towards 
her. 

'  I  am,'  she  replied.     *  What  is  your  business  with  mc  ]' 

'  I  have  to  place  this  document  in  your  hands.' 

He  gave  her  a  paper,  which  she  rapidly  imfolded.  To  her 
dying  day  she  could  always  see  that  hateful  bit  of  foolscap 


THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL.  321 

with  its  alternate  printing  and  writing.  The  words  were  to 
this  eflfect : — 

Wkit  Subpoena  ad  Test,  at  Sittings  of  High  Coubt. 

|fn  i^e  |5t0li  Court  of  |nstlcf,  Queen's  ^Unx^  ^ibision. 

Between  Luke  E.^ebuhn,  Plaintiff, 

AND 

William  Henry  Pogson,  Defendant. 

VICTOEIA,  by  the  Grace  of  God,  of  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland,  Queen,  Defender  of  the  Faith, 

To  Eeica  Kaebuen,  greeting. 

We  command  j^ou  to  attend  at  the  sittings  of  the  Queen's  Bench  Division 
of  our  High  Coukt  of  Justice  to  be  holden  at  Westminster,  on  Tuesday, 
the  Twentieth  day  of  June,  18 — ,  at  the  hour  of  half-past  Ten  in  the 
forenoon,  and  so  from  day  to  day  during  the  said  sittings,  until  the  above 
cause  is  tried,  to  give  evidence  on  behalf  of  the  Defendant. 

Witness,  &c.  &c. 

Erica  read  the  paper  tAvice  before  she  looked  up ;  she  had 
grown  w^hite  to  the  very  lips.  Raebum,  recognising  the  form  of 
a  subpoena,  came  hastily  forwai'd,  and  in  the  merest  glance  saw 
how  matters  were.  By  no  possibility  could  the  most  malicious 
of  opponents  have  selected  a  surer  means  of  torturing  him. 

'  Is  this  legal  V  asked  Erica,  lifting  to  his  eyes  that  flashed 
with  righteous  indignation, 

*  Oh,  it  is  legal,'  he  replied,  bitterly — '  the  pound  of  flesh 
was  legal.  A  wife  need  not  appear  against  her  husband,  but  a 
daughter  may  be  dragged  into  court  and  forced  to  give  evidence 
against  her  father.' 

As  he  spoke,  such  anger  flashed  from  his  eyes  that  the 
clerk  shivered  all  down  his  backbone.  He  thought  he  would 
take  his  departure  as  quickly  as  might  be,  and  drawing  a  little 
nearer,  put  down  a  coin  upon  the  table  beside  Erica. 

'  This  fee  is  to  cover  your  expenses,  madam,'  he  said. 

*  What  !/  exclaimed  Erica,  her  anger  leaping  up  into  a 
sudden  flame,  '  do  you  think  I  shall  take  money  from  that 
luan  V 

She  had  an  insane  desire  to  snatch  up  the  sovereign  and 
fling  it  at  the  clerk's  head,  but,  restraining  herself,  merely 
flicked  it  back  across  the  table  to  him,  just  touching  it  with 
the  back  of  her  hand  as  though  it  had  been  polluted. 

'  You  can  take  that  back  again,'  she  said,  a  look  of  scorn 
sweeping  over  her  face.  '  Tell  Mr.  Pogson  that,  when  he 
martyrs  people,  he  need  not  say,  "  The  martyrdom  will  make 


322  THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL. 

you  hungry — here  is  hxnchcon  money,"  or  "  The  torture  will 
tire  you — here  is  your  cabfarc'?"' 

'  JBut,  madam,  excuse  me,'  said  the  clerk,  looking  much 
emhaiTassed,  '  I  must  leave  the  money,  I  am  bound  to  leave  it.* 

'If  you  leave  it,  I  shall  just  throw  it  into  the  fire-place 
before  your  eyes,'  said  Erica.  '  But  if  indeed  it  can't  be  sent 
back,  then  give  it  to  the  first  gutter-child  you  meet — do  any- 
thing you  like  with  it !  hang  it  on  your  watch-chain  as  a 
memento  of  the  most  cruel  case  your  firm  ever  had  to  do  with! - 

Her  colour  had  come  back  again,  her  cheeks  were  glowing, 
in  her  wrath  she  looked  most  beautiful ;  the  clerk  would  have 
been  less  than  human  if  he  had  not  felt  sorry  for  her.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence  ;  he  glanced  fi'om  the  daughter  to  the 
father,  whose  face  was  still  pale  and  rigid.  A  great  pity  surged 
up  in  the  clerk's  heart.  He  was  a  father  himself,  involuntarily 
his  thoughts  turned  to  the  little  home  at  Kilburn  where  Mary 
and  Kitty  would  be  Avaiting  for  him  that  evening.  AYhat  if 
they  should  ever  be  forced  into  a  witness-box  to  confirm  a  libel 
on  his  personal  chai'acter  1  A  sort  of  moisture  came  to  his  eyes 
at  the  bare  idea.  The  counsel  for  the  defence,  too,  Avas  that 
Cringer,  Q.C.,  the  greatest  bully  that  ever  wore  silk  !  Then 
he  glanced  once  more  at  the  silent,  majestic  figure  with  the 
rigid  face,  w^ho  though  an  atheist  was  yet  a  man  and  a  father. 

*  Sir,'  he  said,  with  the  ring  of  real  and  deep  feeling  in  his 
voice,  '  sir,  believe  me,  if  I  had  known  Avhat  bringing  this  sub- 
poena meant,  I  would  sooner  have  lost  my  situation  1' 

Raeburn's  face  relaxed ;  he  spoke  a  few  courteous,  dignified 
W'Ords,  accepting  with  a  sort  of  unspoken  gratitude  the  man's 
regret,  and  in  a  few  moments  dismissing  him.  But  even  in 
those  few  moments  the  clerk,  though  by  no  means  an  impres- 
sionable man,  had  felt  the  spell,  the  strange  power  of  fascina- 
tion which  Eaeburn  invariably  exercised  upon  those  he  talked 
with — that  inexplicable  influence  which  made  cautious,  hard- 
headed  mechanics  ready  to  die  for  him,  ready  to  risk  anything 
in  his  cause. 

The  instant  the  man  was  gone,  Eaeburn  sat  down  a< 
Erica's  writing-table  and  began  to  answer  his  letters.  II iw 
correspondents  got  very  curt  answers  that  day.  Erica  could 
tell  by  the  sound  of  his  pen  how  sharp  were  the  down-strokes, 
how  short  the  rapidly-written  sentences. 

'Can  I  help  you]'  she  asked,  drawing  nearer  to  him. 

He  hastily  selected  two  or  three  lettei's  not  bearing  on  his 
anti-religious  work,  gave  her  directions,  then  plunged  his  pen 
in  the  ink  once  more,  and  went  on  writing  at  lightning  speed. 


THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL.  323 

When  at  length  the  most  necessary  ones  were  clone,  he  pushed 
hack  his  chair,  and  getting  up  began  to  pace  rapidly  to  and 
fro.  Presently  he  paused,  and  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece, 
his  face  half  shaded  by  his  hand. 

Erica  stole  up  to  him  silently. 

'  Sometimes,  Eric,'  he  said,  abruptly,  '  I  feel  the  need  of  the 
word.  "  Devil."  My  vocabulary  has  nothing  strong  enough  for 
that  man.' 

She  was  too  heartsick  to  speak  ;  she  drew  closer  to  him  with 
a  mute  caress. 

'Eric!'  he  said,  holding  her  hands  between  his,  and  look- 
ing down  at  her  with  an  indescribably  eager  expression  in  his 
eyes,  '  Eric,  surely  noio  you  see  that  this  persecuting  religion, 
this  religion  which  has  been  persecuting  innumei'able  people 
for  hundreds  of  years,  is  false,  worthless,  rotten  to  the  core  ! 
Child  !  child  !  surely  you  can't  believe  in  a  God  whose  followers 
try  to  promote  His  glory  by  sheer  brutality  like  this  ]' 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  to  her  on  this  subject 
since  their  interview  at  Codringtou.  They  had  resolved  never 
to  touch  upon  it  again ;  but  a  sort  of  consciousness  that  some 
good  must  come  to  him  through  this  new  bitterness,  a  hope 
that  it  must  and  would  reconviuce  his  child,  impelled  Raeburn 
to  break  his  resolution. 

'  I  could  sooner  doubt  that  you  are  standing  here,  father, 
with  your  arm  round  me,'  said  Erica,  '  thaii  I  could  doubt  the 
presence  of  your  Father  and  mine — the  All-Father.' 

'  Even  though  His  followers  are  such  lying  scoundrels  as 
that  Pogson  ?  What  do  you  make  of  that  %  What  do  you 
think  of  that  r 

'  I  think,'  she  replied,  quietly,  '  that  my  father  is  too  just  a 
man  to  judge  Christianity  by  the  very  worst  specimen  of  a 
Christian  to  be  met  with.  Any  one  who  does  not  judge 
Secularism  by  its  very  best  representatives,  dead  or  living,  is 
unfair — and  what  is  unfair  in  one  case  is  unfair  in  another.' 

'  Well,  if  I  judged  it  by  you,  perhaps  I  might  take  a  dif- 
ferent view  of  it,'  said  Raeburn.  'But  then  you  had  the 
advantage  of  some  years  of  Secularism,' 

'Not  by  me!' cried  Erica.  'How  can  it  seem  anything 
but  very  faulty  when  you  judge  it  only  by  faulty  peopled  Wliy 
not  judge  it  by  the  life  and  character  of  Chinsti' 

Raeburn  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

•  A  myth  !  a  poetic  creation — -long  ago  distorted  out  of  its 
true  proportions  !  There,  child,  I  see  we  must  stop.  I  only 
pain  you  and  torture  myself  by  arguing  the  question.' 


324  THE  MOST  UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL. 

'Oue  more  thing,'  said  Erica,  'before  we  go  back  to  the 
old  rdleuce.  Father,  if  you  would  only  write  a  life  of  Christ — 
I  mean,  a  really  complete  life ;  the  one  you  wrote  years  ago 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  pamphlet.'' 

lie  smiled  a  little,  knowing  that  she  thought  tlic  deep  study 
necessary  for  such  an  undertaking  would  lead  to  a  change  in 
his  views. 

'  My  dear,'  he  said,  '  perhaps  I  would ;  but  .just  see  how  I 
am  overdone.  I  couldn't  write  an  elaborate  thing  now. 
Besides,  there  is  the  book  on  the  Pentateuch  not  half  finished, 
though  it  was  promised  months  ago.  Perhaps  a  year  or  two 
lience,  Avhen  Pogson  gives  me  time  to  draw  a  long  bi'cath,  I'll 
attempt  it;  but  I  h;ive  an  idea  that  one  or  other  of  us  will 
have  to  be  "  kilt  intircly  "  before  that  happy  time  arrives.  Per- 
haps we  shall  mutually  do  for  each  other,  and  re-enact  the 
historical  song.'     And,  with  laughter  in  his  eyes,  he  repeated, 

'  There  once  were  two  cats  of  Kilkennj', 
Each  thought  there  was  one  cat  too  man}', 
So  they  quarrelled  and  spit,  and  they  scratched  and  they  bit, 
Till,  excepting  their  nails  and  the  tips  of  their  tails, 
Instead  of  two  cats,  there  weren't  any.' 

Erica  smiled  faintly,  but  sighed  the  next  minute. 

'Well,  there!  it's  too  grave  a  matter  to  jest  about,'  said 
Raebui-n.  '  Oh,  bairn  !  if  I  could  but  save  you  from  that 
bi'ute's  malice,  I  should  care  very  little  for  the  rest.' 

'  Since  you  only  care  about  it  for  my  sake,  and  I  only  for 
yours,  I  think  we  may  as  Avell  give  up  caring  at  all,'  said  Erica, 
looking  up  at  him  Avith  a  brave  smile.  'And,  after  all,  Mr. 
Cringer,  Q.C.,  can  only  keep  me  in  purgatory  for  a  few  hours  at 
the  outside.  Don't  you  think,  too,  that  such  a  cruel  thing  will 
damage  Mr.  Pogson  in  the  eyes  of  the  jury  V 

'  Unfortunatel}'',  deai-,  juries  are  seldom  inclined  to  show  any 
delicate  considcrateness  to  an  atlicist,'  said  llaeburn. 

And  Erica  knew  that  he  spoke  tndy  enough. 

No  more  was  said  just  tlicn.  llaeburn  began  rapidly  to 
run  through  his  remaining  correspondence — a  truly  miscel- 
laneous collection.  Legal  letters,  political  letters,  business 
letters, — requests  for  his  autograph,  fur  his  help,  for  his  advice; 
— a  challenge  from  a  Presbyterian  minister  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land to  meet  him  in  debate;  the  like  from  a  Unitarian  in  Norfolk; 
a  coffin  and  some  insalting  verses  in  a  match-box,  and  lastly 
an  abusive  letter  from  a  clergyman,  holding  him  responsible 
for  some  articles  by  ^Ir.  Masterman,  which  he  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with,  aud  of  which  he  in  fact  disapproved. 


RAEKURN  V.  rocsoN.  325 

'What  would  they  think,  Eric,  if  I  insisted  on  holding  the 
Bishop  of  London  responsible  for  every  utterance  of  every 
Christian  in  the  diocese]'  said  Raeburn. 

'  They  would  think  you  were  a  fool,'  said  Erica,  cutting  the 
coffin  into  little  bits  as  she  spoke. 

Raeburn  smiled  and  pencilled  a  word  or  two  ou  the  letter 
— the  pith  of  a  stinging  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

RAEBURN   V.    POGSON. 

Oh,  Goil  of  mountains,  stars,  and  boundless  spaces! 

Ob,  God  of  freedom  and  of  joj'ous  hearts  ! 
When  Thy  face  looketh  forth  from  all  men's  faces. 

There  will  be  room  enough  in  crowded  marts- 
Brood  Thou  around  me,  and  the  noise  is  o'er  ; 
Thy  universe  my  closet  with  shut  door. 

Heart,  heart,  awake  !     The  love  that  loveth  all 

Maketh  a  deeper  calm  than  Horeb's  cave. 
God  in  thee,  can  His  children's  folly  gall  ? 

Love  may  be  hurt,  but  shall  not  love  be  brave? 
Thy  holy  silence  sinks  in  dews  of  balm ; 
Thou  art  my  solitude,  my  mountain  calm. 

Geoege  JIacDonald. 

Wheist  a  particularly  unpleasant  event  has  long  been  hanging 
over  one's  head,  sure  to  come  at  some  time,  though  the  precise 
date  is  unknown,  people  of  a  certain  disposition  find  it  quite 
possible  to  live  on  pretty  comfortably  through  the  waiting  time. 
But  when  at  length  the  date  is  fixed,  when  you  know  that  that 
which  3'ou  dread  will  happen  upon  such  and  such  a  day, 
then  the  waiting  begins  all  at  once  to  seem  intolerable.  The 
vague  date  had  been  awaited  calmly,  but  the  certain  date  is 
awaited  with  a  wearing  anxiety  which  tells  fearfully  on  physical 
strength.  When  Erica  knew  that  the  action  for  libel  would 
begin  in  a  fortnight's  time,  the  comparative  calmness  of  the 
nine  months  which  had  passed  since  the  outset  of  the  matter 
gave  place  to  an  agony  of  apprehension.  Night  after  night 
she  had  fearful  dreams  of  being  cross-examined  by  Mr.  Cringer, 
Q.C.J  who  always  forced  her  to  say  exactly  what  she  did  not 
m?an.  Night  after  night  coldly  curious  eyes  stared  down  at 
her  from  all  parts  of  a  crowded  court ;  while  her  misery  was 
completed  by  being  perfectly  conscious  of  what  she  ought  to 
have  said  directly  it  was  too  late. 

By  day  she  was  too  wise  to  allow  herself  to  dwell  on  the 


326  RAEBURN  V.  POGSON. 

future;  she  worked  doubly  bard,  laid-iu  a  stock  of  particularly 
interesting  books,  and  threw  herself  as  much  as  possible  into 
the  lives  of  others.  Hap^tily,  the  Farrauts  were  in  town,  and 
she  was  able  to  see  a  great  deal  of  them  ;  while  on  the  very 
day  before  the  trial  came  a  substantial  little  bit  of  happiness. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  study  doing  some  copying  for  her 
father,  when  a  brougham  sto2)pcd  at  the  dooi\  Erica,  who 
never  failed  to  recognise  a  horse  if  she  had  once  seen  it  before, 
who  even  had  favourites  among  the  dozens  of  omnibus  horses 
which  she  met  daily  in  Oxford  Street,  at  once  knew  that  either 
Donovan  or  Gladys  had  come  to  see  her. 

She  ran  out  into  the  hall  to  meet  them,  but  had  no  sooner 
opened  the  study  door,  than  the  tiniest  of  dogs  trotted  into  the 
room,  and  began  sniffing  cautiously  at  her  father's  clothes. 

*  Tottie  has  made  a  very  unceremonious  entrance,'  said  a 
clear,  mellow  voice  in  the  passage.  '  May  we  come  in,  or  are 
you  too  busy  to-day  1 ' 

'  Oh,  please  come  in.  Father  is  at  home,  and  I  do  so  want 
you  to  meet,'  said  Erica.  '  You  have  brought  Doll}',  too  !  that 
is  delightful.  We  are  dreadfully  in  want  of  something  young 
and  happy  to  cheer  us  up.' 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  with  the  momentary  keen  glance 
into  each  other's  eyes  which  those  give  who  have  heard  nmch 
of  one  another  but  have  never  been  personally  acquainted. 

'  As  to  Dolly,'  said  Donovan,  '  she  I'equires  no  introduction 
to  Mr.  Raeburn.' 

'  No,'  said  Erica,  laughing,  '  she  cried  all  over  his  coat  two 
years  ago.' 

Dolly  did  not  often  wait  for  introductions,  unless  she  dis- 
liked people.  And  no  child  could  have  found  it  in  its  heart  to 
dislike  anything  so  big  and  kind  and  fatherly  as  Luke  Raeburn. 

'  We  blought  a  little  dog  for  Elica,'  she  said,  in  her  silvery 
treble. 

And  the  next  moment  she  was  established  on  llaeburn's 
knee,  encouraged  to  thrust  a  little,  dimpled  hand  into  his 
pocket  for  certain  Edinburgh  dainties. 

'  Dolly  does  not  beat  about  the  bush,'  said  Donovan,  smiling. 
'Would  you  at  all  care  to  have  this  small  animal?'  I  knew 
you  were  fond  of  dogs,  and  Gladys  and  I  saw  this  little  toy 
J'^squimaux  the  other  day,  and  fell  in  love  with  him.  I  find, 
though,  that  another  dog  rather  hurts  Waifs  feelings,  so 
you  will  be  doing  a  kindness  to  him  as  well,  if  you  will  accept 
Tottie.' 

'Oh,  how  delightful  of  you  !    it  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of 


RAEEURN  V.  POGSON.  327 

it,'  said  Erica.  *  I  have  alwa^.s  so  longed  to  have  a  dog  of  my 
own.  And  this  is  such  a  little  beauty  !  Is  it  not  a  very  rare 
breed  V 

'  I  believe  it  is,  and  I  think  he's  a  loving  little  beggar,  too,' 
replied  Donovan.  '  He  is  making  himself  quite  at  home  here, 
is  he  not  V 

And  in  truth  the  small  dog  seemed  deeply  intei'ested  in  his 
new  residence.  He  was  the  tiniest  of  his  kind,  and  was  covered 
with  long  black  hair  which  stood  straight  up  on  end ;  his 
pointed  nose,  bright  brown  eyes,  and  cunning  little  ears,  set  in 
the  framework  of  bushy  hair,  gave  him  a  most  sagacious  ap- 
pearance. And  just  now  he  Avas  brimful  of  curiosity,  pattering 
all  over  the  room,  poking  his  nose  into  a  great  pile  of  Idol- 
Breakers,  sniffing  at  theological  and  anti-theological  books  with 
perfect  impartiality,  rubbing  himself  against  Raeburn's  foot  in 
the  most  ingi-atiating  way,  and  finall}^  springing  up  on  Erica's 
lap  with  the  oddest  mixture  of  defiance  and  devotion  in  his 
eyes,  which  said  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  spoken,  '  People  may 
say  what  they  like  about  you,  but  I'm  your  faithful  dog  from 
this  day  forward  !' 

Raebum  was  obliged  to  go  out  almost  directly,  as  he  had 
an  appointment  in  the  city,  but  Erica  knew  that  he  had  seen 
enough  of  Donovan  to  realise  what  he  was,  and  was  satisfied. 

'  i  am  so  glad  you  have  just  met,'  she  said,  when  he  had 
left  the  room.  '  x\nd,  as  to  Dolly,  she's  been  a  real  god-send. 
I  haven't  seen  my  father  smile  before  for  a  week.' 

'  Strange,  is  it  not,  how  almost  always  children  instinctively 
take  to  those  whom  the  world  treats  as  outcasts  !  I  have  a 
great  belief  that  God  lets  the  pure  and  innocent  make  up  in 
part  by  their  love  for  the  uncharitableness  of  the  rest  of  us.' 

'  That's  a  nice  thought,'  said  Erica.  '  I  have  never  had 
much  to  do  with  children,  except  with  this  one.'  And  as  she 
spoke  she  lifted  Dolly  on  her  lap  beside  Tottie. 

*I  have  good  reason  to  believe  in  both  this  kind  and  that,'  said 
Donovan,  touching  the  dusky  head  of  the  dog  and  the  sunny 
hair  of  the  child.  As  he  spoke,  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes 
which  made  Ei'ica  feel  inclined  almost  to  cry.  She  knew  that 
he  was  thinking  of  the  past,  though  there  was  no  regret  in  his 
expression,  only  a  shade  of  additional  gravity  about  his  lips, 
and  an  unusual  light  about  his  brow  and  eyes.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  who  had  known  both  the  evil  and  the  good,  and  had 
now  reached  far  into  the  Unseen. 

By-and-by  they  talked  of  Switzerland,  and  of  Brian,  Donovan 
telling  her  j  ust  what  she  wanted  to  know  about  him,  though  he 


328  RAEBURN  V.  POGSON. 

never  let  her  feel  that  he  knew  all  about  the  day  at  Fiesole. 
And  from  that  they  passed  to  the  coming  trial,  of  which  he 
spoke  in  exactly  the  most  helpful  way,  not  trying  to  assure  her, 
as  some  well-meaning  people  had  done,  that  there  was  really 
nothing  to  be  grieved  or  anxious  about;  but  fully  sympathising 
with  the  pain,  Avhilc  he  somehow  led  her  on  to  the  thought  of 
the  unseen  good  which  w^ould  in  the  long-run  result  from  it. 

*  I  do  believe  that  now,  with  all  my  heart,'  she  said. 

'  I  knew  you  did,'  he  replied,  smiling  a  little.  '  You  have 
learnt  it  since  you  were  at  Greyshot  last  year.  And  once  learnt, 
it  is  learnt  for  ever.' 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  musingly.  '  But,  oh !  how  slowly  one 
learns — in  such  little  bits  !  It's  a  great  mistake  to  think  that 
we  grasp  the  whole  when  the  light  first  comes  to  us ;  and  yet 
it  feels  then  like  the  whole.' 

'  Because  it  was  the  whole  you  were  then  capable  of,'  said 
Donovan.     '  But,  you  see,  you  grow.' 

'  Want  to  grow,  at  any  rate,'  said  Erica.  'Grow  conscious 
that  there  is  an  Infinite  to  grow  to.' 

Then,  as  in  a  few  minutes  he  rose  to  go, 

'  Well !  you  have  done  me  good,  you  and  Dolly,  and  this 
blessed  little  dog.     Thank  you  very  much  for  coming.' 

She  went  out  with  them  to  the  door,  and  stood  on  the  steps, 
with  Tottie  in  her  arms,  smiling  a  good-bye  to  little  Dolly. 

'  That's  the  bravest  woman  I  know,'  thought  Donovan  to 
himself,  '  and  the  sweetest — save  one.  Poor  Brian  !  Though, 
after  all,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  love  such  as  Erica  even  without 
hope.' 

And  all  the  afternoon  there  rang  in  his  ears  the  line — 

'  A  woman's  soul,  most  soft  yet  strong.' 

The  next  day  troubles  began  in  good  earnest.  They  were 
all  very  silent  at  breakfast ;  ilaeburn  looked  anxious  and  pre- 
occupied, and  Erica,  not  feeling  sure  that  conversation  would 
not  worry  him,  did  not  try  to  talk.  Once  Aunt  Jean  looked  up 
for  a  moment  from  her  paper  Avith  a  question. 

'By-thc-by,  what  are  you  going  to  wear.  Erica?' 

'  Sackcloth,  I  think,'  said  Erica ;  '  it  would  be  appropriate.' 

Ilaeburn  smiled  a  little  at  this. 

'Something  cool,  I  should  advise,'  ho  said.  'The  place  will 
be  like  a  furnace  to-day.' 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  went  away  to 
his  study.  Tom  had  to  hurry  away,  too,  being  due  at  his  office 
by  nine  o'clock ;  and  Erica  began  to  rack  her  brains  to  deviso 


RAEBURN  V.  POGSON.  329 

the  nicest  of  dinners  for  them  that  evening.  She  dressed  in  good 
time,  and  was  waiting  for  her  father  in  the  green-room,  when  just 
before  ten  o'clock  the  front  door  opened,  quick  steps  came  up 
the  stairs,  and,  to  her  amazement,  Tom  entered. 

'  Back  again  !'  she  exckximed,      '  Have  you  got  a  hohday  T 

'  I've  got  my  conge,''  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  throwing 
himself  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window. 

'  Tom  !  What  do  you  mean  1 '  she  cried,  dismayed  by  the 
trouble  in  his  face. 

*  Got  the  sack,'  he  said,  shortly. 

'  What !     Lost  your  situation  1     But  how  ]     Why  V 

'  I  was  called  this  morning  into  Mr.  Ashgrove's  private 
room ;  he  informed  me  that  he  had  just  learnt  with  great 
annoyance  that  I  was  the  nephew  of  that  (you  can  supply  his 
string  of  abusive  adjectives)  Luke  Raeburn,  Was  it  true?  I 
told  him  I  had  that  honour.  Was  I,  then,  an  atheist  1 
Certainly.  A  Eaeburnite'?  Naturally.  After  which  came  a 
long  jobation,  at  the  end  of  which  I  found  myself  the  wrong 
side  of  the  office  door,  with  orders  never  to  darken  it  again,  and 
next  month's  salary  in  my  hand.  That's  the  matter  in  brief, 
CuginaJ 

His  face  settled  into  a  sort  of  blank  despair,  so  unlike  its 
usual  expression  that  Erica's  wrath  flamed  up  at  the  sight. 

'  It's  a  shame  ! '  she  cried — '  a  wicked  shame  !  Oh,  Tom 
dear,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you.  I  wish  this  had  come  upon  me 
instead.' 

'  I  wouldn't  care  so  mvich,'  said  poor  Tom,  huskily,  *  if  he 
hadn't  chosen  just  this  time  for  it ;  but  it  will  worry  the 
chieftain  now.' 

Erica  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

'  Oh,  what  shall  we  do — what  can  we  dol'  she  cried,  almost 
in  despair.  '  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  Father  will  feel  it 
dreadfully.' 

But  to  conceal  the  matter  was  now  hopeless,  for  as  she 
spoke  Raeburn  came  into  the  room. 

'  What  shall  I  feel  dreadfully  % '  he  said,  smiling  a  little. 
*  If  any  man  ought  to  be  case-hardened,  I  ought  to  be.' 

But  as  he  drew  nearer,  and  saw  the  faces  of  the  two,  his 
own  face  grew  stern  and  anxious. 

'  You  at  home,  Tom  !     What's  the  matter  1 ' 

Tom  briefly  told  his  tale,  trying  to  make  as  light  of  it  as 
possible,  even  trying  to  force  a  little  humour  into  his  account, 
but  with  poor  success.  There  was  absolute  silence  in  the  green- 
room when  he  paused.  Raeburn  said  not  a  word,  but  he  grew 
15 


330  RAEBURN  V.  POGSON, 

very  pale,  evidently  in  this  matter  being  by  no  means  case- 
hardened.  A  similar  instance,  further  removed  from  his 
immediate  circle,  might  have  called  forth  a  strong,  angry 
denunciation  ;  but  he  felt  too  deeply  anything  affecting  his 
own  family  or  friends  to  be  able  in  the  first  keenness  of  his 
grief  and  anger  to  speak. 

'My  boy,'  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low,  musical  voice,  whose 
perfect  modulations  taxed  Tom's  powers  of  endurance  to  the 
xitmost,  '  I  am  very  sorry  for  this.  I  can't  say  more  now  ;  we 
will  talk  it  over  to-night.  Will  you  come  to  Westminster  .vitli 
usf 

And  presently,  as  they  drove  along  the  crowded  streets,  he 
said,  with  a  bitter  smile, 

'  There's  one  Biblical  woe  which  by  no  possibility  can  ever 
befall  us,' 

'What's  that?'  said  Tom. 

* "  Woe  nnto  you  when  all  men  speak  well  of  you,"  '  said 
Raeburn. 

A  few  minutes  later,  and  the  memoral)le  trial  of  Raeburn  v. 
Pogson  had  at  length  begun.  Raeburn's  friends  had  done 
their  best  to  dissuade  him  from  conducting  his  own  case,  but 
he  always  replied  to  them  with  one  of  his  Scotch  proverbs  '  A 
man's  a  lion  in  his  ain  cause.'  His  opening  speech  was  such 
an  exceedingly  poweiful  one  that  all  felt  on  the  first  day  that 
he  had  been  right,  though  inevitably  it  added  not  a  little  to 
the  disagreeableness  of  the  case. 

As  soon  as  the  court  had  risen,  Erica  went  home  with  her 
aunt  and  Tom,  thankful  to  feel  that  at  least  one  day  was  well 
over ;  but  her  father  was  closeted  for  some  houi's  with  his 
solicitor,  and  did  not  rejoin  them  till  late  that  evening.  He 
came  in  then,  looking  fearfully  tired,  and  scarcely  spoke  all 
through  dinner ;  but  afterwards,  just  as  Tom  was  leaving  the 
room,  he  called  him  back. 

*  I've  been  thinking  things  over,'  he  said.  '  What  was  your 
salary  with  Mr.  Ashgrove]' 

'  100/.  a-year,'  replied  Tom,  wondering  at  what  possible 
hour  the  chieftain  had  found  a  spare  moment  to  bestow  upon 
his  affairs. 

'  Well,  then,  will  you  be  my  secretary  for  the  same  V 

For  many  yeai's  Tom  had  given  all  his  spare  time  to  helping 
Raeburn  with  his  correspondence,  and  for  some  time  he  had 
been  the  practical,  though  unrecognised,  sub-editor  of  the  Idol- 
Jireaker  ;  but  all  his  work  had  been  done  out  of  pm-e  devotion 
to  the  '  cause.'     Nothing  could  have  pleased  him  more  tlian  to 


EAEBURN  V.  POGSON.  331 

give  his  whole  time  to  the  work,  while  his  great  love  and 
admiration  for  Raebnrn  eminently  qualified  him  for  the  service 
of  a  somewhat  autocratic  master. 

Raeburn,  with  all  his  readiness  to  help  those  in  any  diffi- 
culty, with  all  his  geniality  and  thoroughness  of  character,  was 
by  no  means  the  easiest  person  to  work  with.  For,  in  common 
with  other  strong  and  self-reliant  characters,  he  liked  in  all 
things  to  have  his  own  way,  and  being  in  truth  a  first-rate 
organizer,  he  had  scant  patience  with  other  people's  schemes. 
Erica  w-as  very  glad  that  he  had  made  the  proposal  to  Tom,  for, 
though  regretting  that  he  should  give  his  life  to  the  furtherance 
of  work,  much  of  which  she  strongly  disapproved,  she  could  not 
but  be  relieved  at  anything  which  would  save  her  father  in 
some  degree  from  the  immense  strain  of  work  and  anxiety, 
which  were  now  altogether  beyond  the  endurance  of  a  single 
man,  and  bid  fair  to  overtax  even  Raeburn's  giant  strength. 

Both  Charles  Osmond  and  Brian  appeared  as  voluntary 
witnesses  on  behalf  of  the  plaintiff,  and  naturally  the  first  few 
days  of  the  trial  were  endurable  enough.  But  on  the  Friday 
the  defence  began,  and  it  became  evident  that  the  most  bitter 
spirit  would  pervade  the  rest  of  the  proceedings.  Mr.  Pogson 
had  spared  neither  trouble  nor  expense ;  he  had  brought 
witnesses  from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  swear  that  (in  some 
cases  twenty  years  ago)  they  had  heard  the  plaintiff  speak  such 
and  such  words,  or  seen  him  do  such  and  such  deeds.  The 
array  of  witnesses  appeared  endless  ;  there  seemed  no  reason 
why  the  trial  ever  should  come  to  an  end.  It  bid  fair  to  be  a 
cause  celebi'e,  while  inevitably  Baeburn's  notoriety  made  the 
public  take  a  great  interest  in  the  proceedings.  It  became  the 
topic  of  the  day.  Erica  rarely  went  in  any  public  conveyance 
without  hearing  it  discussed. 

One  day  she  heard  the  follow'ing  cheering  sentiment : 

'Oh,  of  course  you  know  the  jury  will  never  give  a  verdict 
for  such  a  fellow  as  Ilaeburn.' 

'  I  suppose  they  can't  help  being  rather  prejudiced  against 
him  because  of  his  views ;  but,  upon  my  word,  it  seems  a  con- 
founded shame  ! ' 

'  Oil,  I  don't  see  that,'  replied  the  first  speaker.  '  If  he 
holds  sucli  views,  he  must  expect  to  suffer  for  tliem.' 

Day  after  day  passed  and  still  the  case  dragged  on.  Erica 
became  so  accustomed  to  spending  the  day  in  court  that  at  last 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  done  anything  else  all  her 
life.  Every  day  she  hoped  that  she  might  be  called,  longing  to 
get  the  hateful  piece  of  work  over.    But  days  and  weeks  passed, 


332  KAEBURN  V.  POGSOX. 

and  still  Mr.  Crinp;cr  and  his  learned  friends  examined  otlicr 
witnesses,  but  kept  her  in  reserve.  Mr.  Bircliam  had  been  ex- 
ceedingly kind  to  her,  and  in  the  Daily  lievieiv  office,  Avhere 
Erica  was  treated  as  a  sort  of  queen,  great  indignation  had  been 
caused  by  Mr.  Pogson's  malice.  'Our  little  lady' (her  sobriquet 
there)  received  the  hcartj^  support  and  sympathy  of  every  man 
in  the  place,  from  the  editor  himself  to  the  printer's  devil. 
Every  morning  the  office-boy  brought  her  in  court  the  allotted 
work  for  the  day,  which  she  wrote  as  well  as  she  could  during 
the  proceedings  or  at  luncheon-time,  with  the  happy  conscious- 
ness that  all  her  shortcomings  woxild  be  set  right  by  the  little 
Irish  sub-editor,  who  worshipped  the  groimd  she  trod  on,  and 
was  always  ready  with  courteous  and  Tinofficieus  help. 

There  were  many  little  pieces  of  kindness  which  served  to 
brighten  that  dreary  summer,  for  Mr.  Pogson's  ill-advised  zeal 
had  stimulated  all  lovers  of  justice  into  a  protest  against  a 
most  glaring  instance  of  bigotry  and  unfair  treatment.  Many 
clergymen  spoke  out  bravely  and  denounced  the  defendant's 
intolerance  ;  many  nonconformist  ministers  risked  giving  dire 
offence  to  their  congregations  by  saying  a  good  word  for  the 
plaintiff.  Each  protest  did  its  modicum  of  good,  but  still  the 
weary  case  dragged  on,  and  every  day  tlic  bitterness  on  cither 
side  seemed  to  increase. 

Mr.  Pogson  had,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  induced  an  enormous 
number  of  witnesses  to  come  forward  and  prove  the  tioith  of 
his  statement,  and  day  after  day  there  were  the  most  wearisome 
references  to  old  diaries,  to  reports  of  meetings  held  in  obscure 
places,  perhaps  more  than  a  dozen  years  ago,  or  to  some  hashed 
and  mangled  report  of  a  debate  which,  incredible  though  such 
meanness  seems,  had  been  specially  constructed  by  some 
unscrupuloiis  opponent  in  such  a  way  as  to  alter  the  entire 
meaning  of  Piaeburn's  words — a  j)rocess  which  may  very  easily 
be  effected  by  a  judicious  omission  of  contexts.  Ilaeburn  was 
cheered  and  encoui'aged,  however,  in  spite  of  all  the  thousand 
cares  and  annoyances  of  that  time  by  the  rapidly  increasing 
number  of  his  followers,  and  by  many  tokens  of  most  touching 
devotion  from  the  people  for  w'hom,  however  mistakenly,  he 
had  laboured  with  unwear3'ing  patience  and  zeal.  Erica  saw 
only  too  plainly  thar  Mr.  Pogson  was,  in  truth,  fighting  against 
Christianity,  and  every  day  brought  fresh  proofs  of  the  injury 
done  to  Christ's  cause  by  this  modern  instance  of  injustice  and 
religious  intolerance. 

It  was  a  terribly  trying  position,  and  any  one  a  degree  less 
brave  and  sincere  would  probably  have  lost  aU  faith ;  but  the 


RAEBURN  V.  POGSON.  333 

one  visible  good  effected  by  that  miserable  struggle  was  the 
strange  influence  it  exerted  in  developing  her  character.  She 
was  one  of  those  who  seem  to  grow  exactly  in  proportion  to  the 
trouble  they  have  had  to  bear.  And  so  it  came  to  pass,  that, 
while  evil  was  wrought  in  many  quarters,  in  this  one  good 
resulted — good  not  in  the  least  understood  by  Raeburn,  or 
Aunt  Jean,  or  Tom,  who  merely  knew  that  Erica  was  less  hot 
and  hasty  than  in  former  times,  and  found  it  more  of  a  relief 
than  ever  to  come  home  to  her  loving  sympathy. 

'  After  all,'  they  used  to  say,  '  the  miserable  delusion  hasn't 
been  able  to  spoil  her.' 

One  day,  just  after  the  court  had  re-assembled  in  the  after- 
noon, Erica  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a  very  sprightly 
criticism  on  a  certain  political  speech,  when  suddenly  she  heard 
the  name,  for  which  she  had  waited  so  long,  called  in  the 
clerk's  most  sonox'ous  tones — '  Erica  Raeburn  ! ' 

She  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  white  flash  as  every  face  in 
the  crowded  court  turned  towards  her,  but  more  conscious  of  a 
strong  Pi'esence  which  seemed  to  wrap  her  in  a  calm  so  perfect 
that  the  disagreeable  surroundings  became  a  matter  of  very 
slight  import.  Here  were  hostile  eyes  indeed ;  but  she  was 
strong  enough  to  face  all  the  powers  of  evil  at  once.  A  sort  of 
murmur  ran  through  the  court  as  she  entered  the  witness-box, 
but  she  did  not  heed  it  any  more  than  she  would  have  heeded  the 
murmur  of  the  summer  Avind  without.  She  just  stood  there, 
strong  in  her  truth  and  purity,  able,  if  need  be,  to  set  a  whole 
world  at  defiance. 

'  Pogsou's  made  a  mistake  in  calling  her,'  said  a  bi'iefless 
barrister  to  one  of  his  companions  in  adversity ;  they  both 
spent  their  lives  in  hanging  about  the  courts,  thankful  when 
they  could  get  a  bit  of  'deviling.' 

'  Right  you  are  !'  replied  the  other,  putting  up  his  eye-glass 
to  look  at  Erica,  and  letting  it  drop  after  a  brief  survey.  '  I'd 
bet  twenty  to  one  that  girl  loses  him  his  case !  And  I'm 
hanged  if  he  doesn't  deserve  to !' 

'  Well,  it  is  rather  a  brutal  thing  to  make  a  man's  own 
child  give  evidence  against  him.  Hullo!  just  look  at  Raeburn! 
That  man's  either  a  consummate  actor,  or  else  a  living  imper- 
sonation of  righteous  anger, 

'  No  acting  there,'  replied  the  other,  putting  up  his  eye- 
glass again.  It's  lucky  duelling  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  or  I 
expect  Pogson  Avovxld  have  a  bullet  in  his  heart  before  the  day 
was  over.  I  don't  wonder  he's  furious,  poor  fellow  !  Now,  then, 
here's  old  Cringer  working  himself  up  into  his  very  worst  temper!' 


334  EAEDURN  V.  POGSON. 

The  whispered  dialogiie  was  interrupted  for  a  few  minutes, 
but  was  continued  at  intervals. 

'  By  Jove,  what  a  voice  she's  got !  The  jury  will  be  flints 
if  they  are  not  influenced  by  it.  Ah,  you  great  brute  !  I 
wouldn't  have  asked  her  that  qiiestion  for  a  thousand  pounds  ! 
How  lovely  she  looks  when  she  blushes  !  He'll  confuse  her, 
though,  as  sure  as  fate.  No,  not  a  bit  of  it !  That  was 
dignified,  wasn't  it]  How  the  words  rang,  "  Of  course  not!" 
I  say,  Jack,  this  will  be  as  good  as  a  lesson  in  elocution 
for  us  !' 

'  Raeburn  looks  up  at  that  for  the  first  time  !  Well,  poor 
devil !  however  much  baited,  he  can,  at  any  rate,  feel  proud  of 
his  daughter.' 

Then  came  a  long  pause.  For  the  fire  of  questions  was  so 
sharp  that  the  two  would  not  break  the  thread  by  speaking. 
Once  or  twice  some  pailicularly  irritating  question  was  ruled 
by  the  judge  to  be  inadmissible,  upon  which  Mr.  Cringer  looked, 
in  a  hesitatingly  courteous  manner,  towards  him,  and  obeyed 
orders  with  a  smiling  deference ;  then,  facing  round  upon 
Erica,  with  a  little  additional  venom,  he  visited  his  annoyance 
upon  her  by  exerting  all  his  unrivalled  skill  in  endeavouring  to 
make  her  contradict  herself 

'  You'll  make  nothing  of  this  one,  Cringer,'  one  of  his 
friends  had  said  to  him  at  the  beginning  of  Erica's  evidence. 
And  he  had  smiled  confidently  by  way  of  reply.  All  the  more 
was  he  now  determined  not  to  be  worsted  by  a  young  girl, 
whom  he  ought  to  be  able  to  put  out  of  countenance  in  ten 
minutes. 

The  result  of  this  was  that,  in  the  words  of  the  newspaper 
reports,  'the  witness's  evidence  was  not  concluded  when  the 
court  rose.'  This  was  perhaps  the  greatest  part  of  the  trial 
to  Erica.  She  had  hoped,  not  onl}^  for  her  own,  but  for  her 
father's  sake,  tliat  her  evidence  might  all  be  taken  in  one  day, 
and  Mr.  Cringer,  while  really  harming  his  own  cause  by  pro- 
longing her  evidence,  inflicted  no  slight  punishment  on  the  most 
troublesome  witness  he  had  ever  had  to  deal  with. 

The  next  morning  it  all  came  over  again,  with  increased 
d  isagreeableness. 

'  Erica  always  was  the  plucky  one,'  said  Tom  to  his  mother, 
as  they  watched  her  enter  the  witness-box.  '  She  always  did 
the  confessing  when  we  got  into  scrapes.  I  only  hope  that 
brute  of  a  Cringer  won't  put  her  out  of  countenance.' 

He  need  not  have  feared,  though  in  truth  Erica  was  tried 
to  the  utmost.     To  begin  with,  it  was  one  of  the  very  hottest 


RAEBURN  V.  POGSON.  335 

of  the  dog-days,  and  the  court  was  crowded  to  suffocation.  This 
was  what  the  public  considered  the  most  interesting  day  of 
the  trial,  for  it  was  the  most  personal  one,  and  the  English 
have  as  great  a  taste  for  personalities  as  the  Amei'icans,  thougii 
it  is  not  so  constantly  gratified.  Apparently,  Mr.  Cringer,  being 
a  shrewd  man,  had  managed  in  the  night-watches  to  calculate 
Erica's  one  vulnerable  point.  She  was  fatally  clear-headed ; 
most  aggravatingly  and  palpably  truthful ;  most  unfortunately 
fascinating ;  and,  though  naturally  quick-tempered,  most 
annoyingly  self-controlled.  But  she  was  evidently  delicate.  If 
he  could  sufliciently  harass  and  tire  her,  he  might  make  her 
say  pi'etty  much  what  he  pleased. 

This,  at  least,  was  the  conclusion  at  which  hc^-had  amved. 
And  if  it  was  indeed  his  duty  to  the  defendant  to  exhaust  both 
fair  means  and  foid  in  the  endeavour  to  win  him  his  case,  then 
he  certainly  fulfilled  his  duty.  For  six  long  hours,  with  only 
a  brief  interval  for  luncheon,  Erica  was  baited,  badgered, 
tormented  with  questions  which  in  themselves  were  insults, 
assured  that  she  had  said  what  she  had  not  said,  tempted  to 
say  what  she  did  not  mean,  involved  in  fruitless  discussions 
about  places  and  dates,  and,  in  fact,  so  thoroughly  tortured, 
that  most  girls  would  long  before  have  succumbed.  She  did 
not  succumb,  but  she  grew  whiter  and  whiter,  save  when  some 
vile  insinuation  brought  a  momentary  wave  of  crimson  across 
her  ftxce. 

Tom  listened  breathlessly  to  the  examination,  which  went 
on  in  a  constant  crescendo  of  bitterness. 

'  The  plaintiff  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  this  1 ' 

'Yes.' 

'  Your  suspicion  was  naturally  excited,  then  V 

'  Certainly  not.' 

*  Not  excited  V — incredulously. 
'  Not  in  the  least.' 

'You  are  an  inmate  of  the  plaintiffs  house,  I  believe?' 

*  I  am.' 

*  But  this  has  not  always  been  the  case  ]' 

'  All  my  life,  with  the  exception  of  two  years.' 

'  Your  reason  for  the  two  years'  absence  had  a  connexion 
witli  the  plaintiffs  mode  of  life,  had  it  not?' 

'  Not  in  the  sense  you  wish  to  imply.  It  had  a  connexion 
with  our  extreme  poverty.' 

'  Though  an  inmate  of  your  father's  house,  you  are  often 
away  from  home]' 

'  No,  very  rarely.* 


53 G  RAEBUKN  V,  POGSON, 

'  Oblige  me  by  giving  a  straightforward  answer.     What  do 
you  mean  by  rarely]' 
'  Very  seldom.' 

*  This  is  mere  equivocation ;  will  you  give  me  a  straight- 
forward reply]' 

'  I  can't  make  it  more  so,'  said  Erica,  keeping  her  temper 
perfectly,  and  replying  to  the  nagging  interrogatories.  '  Do  you 
mean  once  a-year,  twice  a-year  1'  etc.  &c.,  with  a  steady  patience 
■which  foiled  Mr.  Cringer  effectually.    He  opened  a  fresh  subject. 

'  Do  you  remember  the  1st  of  September  last  year?' 

'  I  do.' 

'  Do  you  remember  what  happened  then  V 

'  Partridge-shooting  began.' 

There  was  much  laughter  at  this  reply ;  she  made  it  partly 
because  even  now  the  comic  side  of  everything  struck  her, 
partly  because  she  wanted  to  gain  time.  What  in  the  world 
was  Mr.  Cringer  driving  at] 

'  Did  uot  something  occur  that  night  in  Guilford  Terrace 
which  you  were  anxious  to  conceal]' 

For  a  moment  Erica  was  dumbfounded.  It  flashed  upon  her 
that  he  knew  of  the  Haeberlein  adventure,  and  meant  to  serve 
his  piirpose  by  distorting  it  into  something  very  different. 
Luckily  she  was  almost  as  rapid  a  thinker  as  her  father  ;  she 
saw  that  there  was  before  her  a  choice  of  two  evils.  She  must 
either  allow  Mi*.  Cringer  to  put  an  atrocious  construction  on 
her  imqualified  'yes,' or  she  must  boldly  avow  Haeberlein's  visit. 

'  AVith  regard  to  my  fother  there  was  nothing  to  conceal,' 
she  replied. 

'  Will  you  swear  that  there  was  notJdng  to  conceal]' 

'  With  regard  to  my  father  I  swear  there  w\as  nothing  to 
conceal.' 

'  Don't  bandy  words  Avith  me.  AVill  you  repeat  my  formula 
— "  Nothing  to  conceal  ]"  ' 

*  No,  I  will  not  repeat  that.' 

'  You  admit  that  there  was  something  to  conceal]' 
'  If  you  call  Eric  Haeberlein  "  something," — yes.' 
There  was  a  great  sensation  in  the  covu't  at  tlicse  words. 
But  Mr.  Cringer  was  nonplused.  The  mysterious  '  something,' 
out  of  which  he  had  intended  to  make  such  capital,  was  turned 
into  a  boldly  avowed  reality — a  reality  which  would  avail  him 
nothing.  Moi'cover,  most  people  would  now  see  through  his 
very  unworthy  manoeuvre.  Furiously  he  hurled  question  after 
question  at  Erica.  He  surpassed  himself  in  sheer  bullying.  By 
this  time,  too,  she  was  very  weary.     The  long  hours  of  standing 


BAEBURN  V.  POGSON.  337 

the  insufTerable  atmosphere,  the  incessant  stabs  at  her  father's 
character  made  the  examination  almost  intolerable.  And  the 
difficulty  of  answering  the  fire  of  questions  was  great.  She 
struggled  on,  however,  until  the  time  came  when  Raeburn  stood 
up  to  ask  whether  a  certain  question  Avas  allowable.  She  looked 
at  him  then  for  the  first  time,  saw  how  terribly  he  was  feeling 
her  interminable  examination,  and  for  a  moment  lost  heart. 
The  I'ows  of  people  grew  hazy  and  indistinct,  Mr.  Cringer's 
face  got  all  mixed  up  with  his  wig,  she  had  to  hold  tightly  to 
the  railing.     How  much  longer  could  she  endure  ! 

'  Yet  you  doubtless  thought  this  probable  1'  continued  her 
tormentor. 

'  Oh,  no  !  on  the  contraiy,  quite  the  reverse,'  said  Erica,  with 
a  momentary  touch  of  humour. 

'  Are  you  acquainted  with  the  popular  saying,  "  None  are  so 
blind  as  those  who  will  not  see  V  ' 

The  tone  was  so  insulting  that  indignation  restored  Erica  to 
her  full  strength ;  she  was  stung  into  giving  a  sharp  retort. 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  very  quietly.  '  It  has  often  occurred  to 
me  during  this  action  as  strangely  applicable  to  the  defendant.' 

Mr.  Cringer  looked  as  if  he  could  have  eaten  her.  There 
was  a  burst  of  applause,  which  was  speedily  suppressed. 

'  Y''et  you  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  deny  the  whole 
allegation  V 

'  Emphatically!' 

*  Are  you  aware  that  people  will  think  you  either  a  deluded 
innocent  or  an  infamous  deceiver  1' 

'  I  am  not  here  to  consider  what  people  may  think  of  me, 
but  to  speak  the  truth.' 

And  as  she  spoke  she  involuntarily  glanced  towai'ds  those 
twelve  fellow-countrymen  of  hers  upon  whose  verdict  so  much 
depended.  Probably  even  the  oldest,  even  the  coldest  of  the 
jurymen  felt  his  heart  beat  a  little  faster  as  those  beautiful, 
sad,  honest  eyes  scanned  the  jury-box.  As  for  the  counsel  for 
the  defence  he  prudently  accepted  his  defeat,  and,  as  Raeburn 
would  not  ask  a  single  question  of  his  daughter  in  crosa- 
cxamination,  another  witness  was  called. 

Long  after,  it  was  a  favourite  story  among  the  young 
barristers  of  how  Mr.  Cringer  was  checkmated  by  Raeburn's 
daughter. 

The  case  divagged  on  its  weary  length  till  August.  At  last, 
whan  two  months  of  the  public  time  had  been  consumed,  when 
something  like  20,000^.  had  been  spent,  when  most  bitter 
resentment  had  been  stirred  up  amongst  the  Secularists,  Mr, 


o38  rose's  adventure. 

Pogson's  defence  came  to  an  end.  Raebum's  reply  was  short, 
but  effective,  and  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  in  his  favour, 
fixing  the  damages,  however,  at  the  very  lowest  sum,  not 
because  they  doubted  that  Raeburn  had  been  most  grossly 
libelled,  but  because  the  plaintiff  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
an  atheist. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

rose's  adventure. 

If  Christians  would   teach  Infidels  to   be  just  to  CliriBtianity,  they 
sliould  themselves  be  just  to  infidelity. 

John  Stuakt  Mill. 

The  green-i'oom  was  one  of  those  rooms  which  show  to  most 
advantage  on  a  winter  evening ;  attractive  and  comfortable  at 
all  times,  it  nevertheless  reached  its  highest  degree  of  comfort 
when  the  dusky  green  curtains  were  drawn,  when  the  old 
wainscoted  walls  were  lighted  up  by  the  red  glow  from  the 
fire,  and  the  well-worn  books  on  the  shelves  were  mellowed  by 
the  soft  light  into  a  uniform  and  respectable  brown.  One 
November  evening,  when  without  was  the  thickest  of  London 
fogs.  Erica  was  sitting  at  her  writing-table  with  Friskarina  on 
her  lap,  and  Tottie  curled  up  at  her  feet,  preparing  for  one  of 
her  science  classes,  Avhen  she  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a 
cab  drawing  up,  speedily  followed  by  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell. 

'  Surely  M.  Noirol  can't  have  come  already!'  she  said  to 
herself,  looking  at  her  watch.  It  was  just  six  o'clock,  a  whole 
hour  before  dinner-time.  Steps  were  approaching  the  door, 
howevei",  and  she  was  just  inhosjjitably  wishing  her  guest  else- 
where, when  to  her  intense  amazement  the  servant  announced 
*  Miss  Fane-Smith.' 

She  started  forward  with  an  exclamation  of  incredulity,  for 
it  seemed  absurd  to  think  of  Rose  actually  coming  to  see  her 
in  her  father's  house.  But  incredulity  was  no  longer  possible 
when  Rose  herself  entered,  in  ulster  and  ti'avelling  hat,  with 
her  saucy  laughing  face,  and  her  invariable  content  with  herself 
and  the  world  in  general. 

'Why,  Erica!'  she  cried,  kissing  her  on  both  cheeks,  'I 
don't  believe  you're  half  properly  glad  to  see  me !  Did  you 
think  it  was  my  wraith  ]  I  assure  you  it's  my  own  self  in  the 
flesh,  and  very  cold  flesh  too.     What  a  delightful  room  !     I'd 


rose's  adventure.  330 

no  idea  atheists'  homes  wei-e  so  much  like  other  people's.  You 
cold-liearted  little  cousin,  why  don't  you  welcome  me]' 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you/  said  Erica,  kissing  her  again. 
'But,  Eose,  what  did  bring  you  here?' 

'  A  fusty  old  cab,  a  four-wheeler,  a  growler,  don't  you  call 
them  ]  But,  if  you  knew  why  I  have  come  to  you  in  this  un- 
expected way,  you  would  treat  me  like  the  heroine  I  am,  and 
not  stand  there  like  an  incarnation  of  prudent  hesitation.  I've 
been  treated  like  the  man  in  the  parable,  I've  fallen  among 
thieves,  and  am  left  with  my  raiment,  certainly,  but  not  a 
farthing  besides  in  the  world.  And  now,  of  course,  you'll  enact 
the  good  Samaritan.' 

'  Come  and  get  warm,'  said  Erica,  drawing  a  chair  towards 
the  fire,  but  still  feeling  uncomfortable  at  the  idea  of  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith's  horror  and  dismay  could  he  have  seen  his  daughter's 
situation.  '  How  do  you  come  to  be  in  town,  Rose,  and  where 
were  you  robbed]' 

'  Why,  I  was  going  to  stay  with  the  Alburys  at  Sandgale, 
and  left  home  about  three,  but  at  Paddington,  when  I  went  to 
get  my  ticket,  lo  and  behold,  my  purse  had  disappeared,  and  I 
was  left  lamenting,  like  Lord  Ullin  in  the  song !' 

'  Have  you  any  idea  who  took  if?' 

'Yes,  I  rather  think  it  must  have  been  a  man  on  the 
Paddington  platform  who  walked  with  a  limp.  I  remember  his 
pushing  up  against  me  very  roughly,  and  I  suppose  that  was 
when  he  took  it.  The  porters  were  all  horrid  about  it,  though ; 
I  could  get  no  one  to  help  me,  and  I  hadn't  even  the  money  to 
get  my  ticket.  At  last  an  old  lady,  who  had  heard  of  my 
penniless  condition,  advised  me  to  go  to  any  friends  I  might 
happen  to  have  in  London,  and  I  bethought  me  of  my  cousin 
Erica.  You  will  befriend  me,  won't  you  ]  For  it  is  impos- 
sible to  get  to  Sandgale  to-night;  there  is  no  other  train 
stopping  there.' 

'  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  right,'  said  Erica,  looking  much 
perplexed.  '  You  see.  Rose,  I'm  afraid  Mr,  Fane-Smith  would 
not  like  you  to  come  here.' 

'  Oh,  nonsense,'  said  Rose,  laughing.  He  couldn't  mind 
in  such  a  case  as  this.  Why,  I  can't  stay  in  the  street  all 
night.  Besides,  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  your  home, 
how  should  he  V 

This  was  true  enough,  but  still  Erica  liesitated, 

'  Who  was  that  white-haired,  patriarchal-looking  man  whom 
I  met  in  the  halU'  asked  Rose.  'A  sort  of  devotional  quaker- 
kind  of  man.' 


310  rose's  adventure. 

Erica  lauglied  aloud  at  this  description. 

'  Tliat's  my  father!'  she  said;  and,  before  slie  had  quite 
recovered  her  gravity,  Raebimi  came  into  the  room  with  some 
papers  which  he  wanted  copied. 

*  Father,'  said  Erica.  '  Tliis  is  Rose,  and  she  has  come  to 
ask  our  help  because  her  purse  has  been  stolen  at  Paddington, 
and  she  is  stranded  in  London  with  no  money.' 

'  It  sounds  dreadfully  like  begging,'  said  Rose,  looking  up 
into  the  brown  eyes  which  seemed  half  kindly,  half  critical. 

They  smiled  at  this,  and  became  at  once  only  kind  and 
hospitable. 

'  Not  in  the  least,'  he  said ;  '  I  am  very  glad  you  came  to 
us.' 

And  then  he  began  to  ask  her  many  practical  questions 
about  her  adventure,  ending  by  promising  to  put  the  matter  at 
once  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  They  were  just  discussing 
the  impossibility  of  getting  to  Sandgale  that  evening,  when  Tom 
came  into  the  room. 

'  Where  is  mother  ]'  he  asked.  '  She  has  kept  her  cab  at 
the  door  at  least  ten  minutes  ;  I  had  to  give  the  fellow  an  extra 
sixpence.' 

'  That  wasn't  auntie's  cab,'  said  Erica.  '  She  came  home 
half  an  hour  ago ;  it  was  Rose's  cab.  I  hope  you  didn't  send 
away  her  boxes  V 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Tom,  looking  much  surprised  and 
a  little  amused.  '  The  boxes  are  safe  in  the  hall,  but  I'm  afraid 
the  cab  is  gone  beyond  recall' 

'  You  see  it  is  evidently  meant  that  I  should  quarter  myself 
upon  you  ! '  said  Rose,  laughing. 

Upon  which  Raeburn,  Avith  a  grave  and  slightly  repressive 
courtesy,  said  they  should  be  very  happy  if  she  would  stay  with 
them. 

*  That  will  make  my  adventure  perfect ! '  said  Rose,  her  eyes 
dancing. 

At  which  Racbum  smiled  again,  amused  to  think  of  the 
uneventful  life  in  which  such  a  trifling  incident  could  seem 
an  '  adventure.' 

'  It  seems  very  inhospitable,'  said  Erica,  *  but  don't  jo\i 
think.  Rose,  you  had  better  go  back  to  Greyshot^' 

'  No,  you  tiresome  piece  of  prudence,  I  don't,'  said  Rose, 
perversely.  'And  what's  more,  I  won't,  as  Uncle  Luke  has 
asked  me  to  stay.' 

Erica  felt  very  uncomfortable ;  she  could  have  spoken 
decidedly  had  she  been  alone  with  any  of  the  three,  but  she 


rose's  adventure.  341 

could  uot,  before  them  all,  say,  '  Mr.  Fane-Smith  thinks  futhei 
an  incarnation  of  wickedness,  and  would  be  horrified  if  he  knew 
that  you  were  here.' 

Tom  had  in  the  meantime  walked  to  the  window  and  drawn 
aside  the  curtain, 

'  The  weather  means  to  settle  the  question  for  you,'  he  said. 
'  You  really  can't  go  off  in  such  a  fog  as  this  ;  it  would  take 
you  hours  to  get  to  Paddington,  if  you  ever  did  get  there, 
which  is  doubtful.' 

They  looked  out  and  saw  that  he  had  not  exaggerated 
matters ;  the  fog  had  grown  much  worse  since  Eose's  arrival, 
and  it  had  been  bad  enough  then  to  make  travelling  by  no 
means  safe.  Erica  saw  that  thei-e  was  no  help  for  it.  Mr. 
Fane-Smith's  anger  must  be  incurred,  and  Rose  must  stay  with 
them.  She  went  aAvay  to  see  that  her  room  was  prepared,  and 
coming  back  a  little  later  found  that  in  that  brief  time  Rose 
had  managed  to  enthrall  poor  Tom,  who,  not  being  ireed  to  the 
genus,  Avas  very  easily  caught,  his  philosophy  being  by  no 
means  proof  against  a  fair-haired,  brightdooking  girl,  who  in  a 
very  few  moments  made  him  feel  that  she  thought  most  highly 
of  him,  and  cared  as  no  one  had  ever  cared  before  for  his 
opinion.  She  had  not  the  smallest  intention  of  doing  harm, 
but  admiration  was  what  she  lived  for,  and  to  flirt  with  every 
man  she  met  had  beconie  almost  as  natural  and  necessary  to 
her  as  to  breathe. 

Erica,  out  of  loyalty  to  Mr,  Fane-Smith,  and  regard  for 
Tom's  future  happiness,  felt  bovmd  to  be  harddiearted  and  to 
separate  them  at  dinner.  Tom  used  to  sit  at  the  bottom  of 
the  table,  as  Raeburn  did  not  care  for  the  trouble  of  carving  ; 
Erica  was  at  the  head  with  her  father  in  his  usual  place  at  her 
right  hand.  She  put  Rose  in  between  him  and  the  professor, 
who  generally  dined  with  them  on  Saturday  ;  upon  the  opposite 
side  were  Aunt  Jean  and  Monsieur  Noirol.  Now  Rose,  who 
had  been  qiiite  in  her  element  as  long  as  she  had  been  talking 
with  Tom  in  the  green-room,  felt  decidedly  out  of  her  element 
when  she  was  safely  ensconced  between  her  white-haired  micle 
and  the  shaggy-looking  professor.  If  Erica  had  felt  bewildered 
when  first  introduced  to  the  gossip  and  small  *  society '  talk  of 
Greyshot,  Rose  felt  doubly  bewildered  when  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  came  into  a  thoroughly  scientific  atmosphere. 
She  realised  that  there  were  a  few  things  which  she  had  yet 
to  learn.  She  w\as  not  fond  of  learning,  so  the  discovery  was 
the  revei'se  of  pleasant ;  she  felt  ignorant  and  humbled,  liking 
to  be  au  Jait  at  evei'ything  and  to  know  things  and  do  things 


342  rose's  adventure. 

just  a  little  better  than  other  people.  Having  none  of  the 
humility  of  a  true  learner,  she  only  felt  annoyed  at  her  own 
ignorance,  not  raised  and  bettered  and  stimulated  by  a  glimpse 
of  the  infinite  greatness  of  science. 

Raeburn,  seeing  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  interested  in 
the  discussion  of  the  future  of  electricity,  left  the  professor  to 
continue  it  with  Tom,  and  began  to  talk  to  her  about  the  loss 
of  her  purse,  and  to  tell  her  of  various  losses  which  he  had 
had.  But  Rose  had  the  mortifying  consciousness  that  all  the 
time  he  talked  he  was  listening  to  the  conversation  between 
Erica  and  Monsieur  Noirol.  As  far  as  Rose  could  make  out,  it 
was  on  Fi'ench  politics ;  but  they  spoke  so  fast  that  her  in- 
different school  French  was  of  very  little  service  to  her.  By- 
and-by  Raeburn.  was  drawn  into  the  discussion,  and  Rose  was 
left  to  amuse  herself  as  well  as  she  could  by  listening  to  a 
rapid  flow  of  unintelligible  French  on  one  side,  and  to  equally 
unintelligible  scientific  talk  on  the  other.  By-and-by  this  was 
merged  into  a  discussion  on  some  recent  book.  They  seemed 
to  get  deeply  interested  in  a  dispute  as  to  whether  Spinoza  was 
or  was  not  at  any  time  in  his  life  a  Cartesian. 

Rose  really  listened  to  this  for  want  of  something  better  to 
do,  and  Raeburn,  thinking  that  he  had  been  neglecting  her, 
and  much  relieved  at  the  thought  that  he  had  at  length  found 
some  point  of  mutual  interest,  asked  her  whether  she  had  read 
the  book  in  question. 

'  Oh,  I  have  no  time  for  reading,'  said  Rose. 

He  looked  a  little  amused  at  this  statement.  Rose  con- 
tinued— • 

'  Who  was  Spinoza  ?     I  never  heard  any  of  his  music' 

'  He  was  a  philosopher,  not  a  composer,'  said  Raeburn, 
keeping  his  countenance  with  difficulty. 

'  What  dreadfully  learned  people  you  are  ! '  said  Rose,  with 
one  of  her  arch  smiles.  '  But  do  tell  me,  how  can  a  man  be  a 
Cartesian  1     I've  heard  of  Cartesian  wells,  but  never ' 

She  broke  off,  for  this  was  quite  too  much  for  Raeburn's 
gravity ;  he  laughed,  but  so  pleasantly  that  she  laughed 
too. 

'  You  are  thinking  of  artesian  wells,  I  fancy,'  he  said,  in  his 
kindly  voice  ;  and  he  began  to  give  her  a  brief  outline  of 
Descartes'  philosophy,  which  it  is  to  be  feared  she  did  not  at  all 
appreciate.  She  was  not  sorry  when  Erica  appealed  to  him 
for  some  disputed  fact,  in  which  they  all  seemed  most  extra- 
ordinarily interested,  for  when  the  discussion  had  lasted  some 
minutes,  Tom  went  off  in  the  middle  of  dinner  and  fetched  in 


rose's  adventure.  3-13 

two  or  three  bulky  books  of  reference;  these  were  eagerly  seized 
upon,  to  the  entire  disregard  of  the  pudding,  which  was  allowed 
to  get  cold. 

Presently  the  very  informal  meal  was  ended  by  some  excel- 
lent coflFee  in  the  place  of  the  conventional  dessert,  after  which 
came  a  hurried  dispersion,  as  they  were  all  going  to  some 
political  meeting  at  the  East-end.  Cabs  were  unattainable,  and, 
having  secured  a  couple  of  link-boys,  they  set  off,  aj)parcntly  in 
excellent  spirits. 

'  Fancy  turning  out  on  such  a  night  as  this  ! '  said  Rose, 
putting  her  arm  within  Erica's.  '  I  am  so  glad  you  are  not 
going,  for  now  we  can  really  have  a  cosy  talk.  I've  ever  so 
much  to  tell  you.' 

Erica  looked  rather  wistfully  after  the  torches  and  the 
retreating  forms  as  they  made  their  way  down  the  steps ;  she 
was  much  disappointed  at  being  obliged  to  miss  this  particular 
meeting,  but  luckily  Rose  was  not  in  the  least  likely  to  find 
this  out,  for  she  could  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  any  one 
really  cai*ed  about  missing  a  political  meeting,  particularly 
when  it  would  have  involved  turning  out  on  such  a  disagree- 
able night. 

Erica  had  persuaded  Rose  to  telegraph  both  to  her  friends 
at  Sandgale  and  to  her  mother,  to  tell  of  her  adventure,  and  to 
say  that  she  would  go  on  to  Sandgale  on  the  Monday.  For, 
unfortunately,  the  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Rose  looked  so 
aghast  at  the  very  idea  of  travelling  then  that  Erica  could  say 
nothing  more,  though  she  surmised  rightly  enough  that  Mr. 
Fane-Smith  would  have  preferred  even  Sunday  travelling  to  a 
Sunday  spent  in  Luke  Raeburn's  house.  There  was  evidently, 
however,  no  help  for  it.  Rose  was  there,  and  there  she  must 
stay ;  alt  that  Erica  could  do  was  to  keep  her  as  much  as 
might  be  out  of  Tom's  way,  and  to  beg  the  others  not  to  discuss 
any  subjects  bearing  on  their  anti-religious  work  ;  and,  since 
there  was  not  the  smallest  temptation  to  try  to  make  Rose  a 
convert  to  Secularism,  they  were  all  quite  willing  to  avoid  such 
topics. 

But,  in  spite  of  all  her  care.  Erica  failed  most  provokingly 
that  day.  To  begin  with,  Rose  pleaded  a  headache,  and  would 
not  go  with  her  to  the  early  service.  Erica  was  disappointed  ; 
but  when,  on  coming  home,  she  found  Rose  in  the  dining-room 
comfortably  chatting  over  the  fire  to  Tom,  who  was  evidently 
ivi  the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness,  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
have  shaken  them  both.  By-and-by  she  tried  to  give  Tom  a 
hint,  which  he  did  not  take  at  all  kindly. 


344  rose's  adventure. 

'Women  never  like  to  see  another  woman  admired,'  lift 
replied,  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

'  But,  Tom,'  she  pleaded,  '  her  father  Moukl  be  so  dreadfully 
angiy  if  he  saw  the  way  you  go  on  with  her.' 

'  Oh,  shut  up,  do,  about  her  father ! '  said  Tom,  crossly. 
'  You  have  crammed  him  down  our  throats  quite  enough.' 

It  was  of  no  use  to  say  more  ;  but  she  went  away  feeling 
sore  and  ruffled.  She  was  just  about  to  set  off  with  Rose  to 
Charles  Osmond's  church,  when  the  door  of  the  study  was 
hastily  opened. 

'  Have  you  see  the  last  Longstaff  Mercury  ?  '  said  Eaebum, 
in  the  voice  which  meant  that  he  was  worried  and  much  pi-essed 
for  time. 

*  It  was  in  here  yesterday,'  said  Erica. 

'  Then,  Tom,  you  must  have  moved  it,'  said  Eaebum, 
sharply.  '  It's  a  most  provoking  thing ;  I  specially  wanted  to 
quote  from  it.' 

*  I've  not  touched  it,'  said  Tom.  *  It's  those  servants  ;  they 
never  can  leave  the  papers  alone.' 

He  was  turning  over  the  contents  of  a  paper-rack,  evidently 
not  in  the  best  of  tempers.     Eose  sprang  forward. 

'  Let  me  help,'  she  said,  with  one  of  her  irresistible  smiles. 

Ei-ica  felt  more  provoked  than  she  would  have  cared  to 
own.  It  was  very  clear  that  those  two  would  never  find  any- 
thing. 

'  Look  here,  Erica,'  said  Eaebum,  *do  see  if  it  isn't  upstairs. 
Tom  is  a  terrible  hand  at  finding  things.' 

So  she  searched  in  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  house, 
and  at  last  found  the  torn  remains  of  the  paper  in  the  house- 
maid's cupboard.  The  rest  of  it  had  been  used  for  lighting  a 
fire. 

Raeburn  was  a  good  deal  annoyed. 

'  Surely,  my  dear,  such  things  might  be  prevented,'  he  said, 
not  crossly,  but  in  the  sort  of  forbearing,  expostulatory  tone 
which  a  woman  dislikes  more  than  anything,  specially  if  she 
happens  to  be  a  careful  housekeeper. 

'  I  told  you  it  was  your  servants  !  *  said  Tom,  triumphantly. 

'  They've  orders  again  and  again  not  to  touch  the  news- 
papers,' said  Erica. 

'  Well,  come  along,  Tom,'  said  Eaebum,  taking  up  his  hat» 
'  We  are  very  late.' 

They  drove  off,  and  Erica  and  Eose  made  the  best  of  their 
way  to  church,  to  find  the  service  begun,  and  seats  unattain- 
able.   Eose  was  very  good-natured,  however,  about  the  standing. 


rose's  adventure.  .  345 

She  began  faintly  to  perceive  that  Erica  did  not  lead  the  easiest 
of  lives  ;  also  she  saw,  with  a  sort  of  wonder,  what  an  influence 
she  was  in  the  honse,  and  how,  notwithstanding  their  difference 
in  creed,  she  was  always  ready  to  meet  the  others  on  every 
point  where  it  was  possible  to  do  so.  Eose  could  not  helj) 
thinking  of  a  certain  friend  of  hers,  who,  having  become  a 
ritualist,  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  emphasising  the  diffei- 
enco  between  her  own  views  and  the  views  of  her  family;  and 
of  Kate  Kighton  at  Grcyshot,  who  had  adopted  the  most  rigid 
evarigelical  views^  and  treated  her  good  old  father  and  mother 
as  '  worldly  '  and  '  unconverted  '  people. 

In  the  afternoon  Tom  had  it  all  his  own  way.  Eaebum  was 
in  his  study  preparing  for  his  evening  lecture  ;  Mrs.  Craigie  had 
a  Bible  class  at  the  East-end,  in  which  she  showed  up  the 
difiicvdties  and  contradictions  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments ; 
Erica  had  a  Bible  class  in  Charles  Osmond's  parish,  in  which 
she  tried  to  explain  the  same  difficulties.  Rose  was  therefore 
aione  in  the  green-room,  and  quite  ready  to  attract  Tom 
and  keep  him  spell-bound  for  the  afternoon.  It  is  possible, 
however,  that  no  great  harm  would  have  been  done,  if  the  visit 
had  come  to  a  natural  end  the  following  day ;  Eose  would 
certainly  have  thought  no  more  of  Tom,  and  Tom  might  very 
possibly  have  come  to  his  senses  when  she  Avas  no  longer  there 
to  fascinate  him.  But  on  the  Sunday  evening  when  the  toils  of 
the  day  were  over,  and  they  were  all  enjoying  the  restful  home 
quiet  Avhich  did  not  come  very  often  in  their  busy  lives,  Hose's 
visit  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  close. 

Looked  at  by  an  impartial  spectator,  the  green-room  would 
surely  have  seemed  a  model  of  family  peace  and  even  of 
Sunday  restfulness.  Eose  was  sitting  at  the  piano  playing 
Mendelssohn's  '  Christmas  Pieces,'  and  giving  great  pleasure  to 
every  one,  for  art  was  in  this  house  somewhat  overshadowed 
by  science,  and  it  did  not  very  often  happen  that  they  could 
listen  to  such  playing  as  Eose's,  which  was  for  that  reason  a 
double  pleasure.  Tom  was  sitting  near  her  looking  supremely 
peaceful.  On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  ]\Irs.  Craigie  and  Mrs, 
MacNaughton  were  playing  their  weekly  game  of  chess.  On 
the  other  side  Eaeburn  had  his  usual  Sunday  evening  recreation, 
his  microscope.  Erica  knelt  beside  him,  her  auburn  head  close 
to  his  white  one  as  they  arranged  their  specimens  or  consulted 
books  of  reference.  The  professor,  who  had  looked  in  on  his 
way  home  from  the  lecture  to  borrow  a  review,  was  browsing 
contentedly  among  the  books  on  the  table,  with  the  comfortable 
Bcnse  that  he  might  justifiably  read  in  a  desultory  holiday  fashion. 


3-16  rose's  auventubb. 

It  was  upon  this  peaceful  and  almost  Sabbatical  group  that 
a  disturbing  element  entered  in  the  shape  of  Mr,  Fane-Smith. 
He  stood  for  an  instant  at  the  door,  taking-in  the  scene,  or 
rather  taking  that  superficial  view  which  the  narrow-minded 
usually  take.  He  was  shocked  at  the  chess-men  ;  shocked  at 
that  profane  microscope,  aud  those  week-day  sections  of  plants  ; 
shocked  at  the  music,  though  he  must  have  heard  it  played 
as  a  voluntary  on  many  church  organs,  and  not  only 
shocked,  but  furious,  at  finding  his  daughter  in  a  very  nest 
of  Secularists. 

Every  one  seemed  a  little  taken  aback  when  he  entered. 
He  took  no  notice  whatever  of  Raeburn,  but  went  straight  up 
to  Rose. 

'  Go  and  put  on  your  things  at  once,'  he  said ;  '  I  have  come 
to  take  you  home.' 

*  Oh,  papa,'  began  Rose,  '  how  you ' 

*  Not  a  word,  Rose.  Go  and  dress,  and  don't  keep  me 
waiting.' 

Erica,  with  a  vain  hope  of  making  Mr.  Fane-Smith  behave 
at  least  civilly,  came  forward  and  shook  hands  with  him. 

*  I  don't  think  you  have  met  my  father  before,'  she  said. 
Raeburn  had  come  a  few  steps  forward  ;  Mr.  Fane-Smith 

inclined  his  head  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch ;  Raeburn  bowed, 
then  said  to  Erica, 

'  Perhaps  Mr.  Fane-Smith  w^ould  prefer  w^aiting  in  my  study.' 

•Thanks,  I  will  wait  where  I  am,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith, 
pointedly  ignoring  the  master  of  the  house,  and  addressing 
Erica.  '  Thank  you,'  as  she  offered  him  a  chair,  '  I  prefer  to 
stand.     Have  the  goodness  to  see  that  Rose  is  quick.' 

'  Thinks  the  chairs  atheistical ! '  remarked  Tom,  to  himself. 

Raeburn,  looking  a  degree  more  stately  than  usual,  stood 
on  the  hearthrug  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  not  in  the  least  for- 
giving his  enemy,  but  merely  adopting  for  himself  the  most 
dignified  role.  Mr,  Fane-Smith  a  few  paces  off  with  his  anger 
and  ill-coneealed  contempt  did  not  show  to  advantage.  Some- 
thing in  the  relative  sizes  of  the  two  struck  the  professor  as 
comically  like  Landseer's  '  Dignity  and  Impudence.'  He  would 
have  smiled  at  the  thought  had  lie  not  been  very  angry  at 
the  discourteous  treatment  his  friend  was  receiving.  Mrs 
MacNaughton  sat  with  her  queen  in  her  hand  as  though  medi- 
tating her  next  move,  but  in  reality  absorbed  in  watching  tha 
game  played  by  the  living  chess-men  before  her.  Tom  at  last 
broke  the  uncomfortable  silence  by  asking  the  professor  about 
some  of  Erica's   specimens,  and  at  length  Rose  came  down, 


rose's  advextueb.  347 

mucli  to  every  one's  relief,  followed  by  Erica,  who  had  been 
helping  her  to  collect  her  things. 

'  Are  you  ready  ] '  said  her  father,     '  Then  come  at  once.' 

'  Let  me  at  least  say  good-bye,  papa,'  said  Rose,  very  angry 
at  being  forced  to  m9.ke  this  undignified,  and,  as  she  rightly 
felt,  rude  exit. 

'  Come  at  once,'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  in  an  inexorable 
voice.     As  he  left  the  room  he  turned  and  bowed  stiffly. 

'  Go  down  and  open  the  door  for  them,  Tom,'  said  Raeburn, 
who  throughout  Mr.  Fane-Smith's  visit  had  maintained  a  stern, 
stately  silence. 

Tom,  nothing  loth,  obeyed.  Erica  was  already  half-way 
downstairs  with  the  guests,  but  he  caught  them  up,  and 
managed  to  say  good-bye  to  Rose,  even  to  whisper  a  hope 
that  they  might  meet  again,  to  which  Rose  replied  with  a 
chai'ming  blush  and  smile,  which,  Tom  flattered  himself,  meant 
that  she  really  cared  for  him.  Had  Rose  gone  qiiietly  away 
the  next  morning,  he  would  not  have  been  goaded  into  any 
such  folly.  A  cab  was  waiting ;  but,  when  Rose  was  once 
inside  it,  her  father  recovered  his  power  of  speech,  and  turned 
upon  Erica  as  they  stood  by  the  front  door. 

'  I  should  have  thought,'  he  said,  in  an  angry  voice,  '  that  after 
our  anxiety  to  persuade  you  to  leave  your  home,  you  might 
have  known  that  I  should  never  allow  Rose  to  enter  this  hell, 
to  mix  with  blaspheming  atheists,  to  be  contaminated  by  vile 
infidels ! ' 

Erica's  Highland  hospitality  and  strong  family  loyalty  were 
so  outmgcd  by  the  words,  that  to  keep  silence  w^as  impossible. 

'  You  forget  to  svhom  you  are  speaking  ! '  she  said,  quickly. 
*  You  forget  that  this  is  my  father's  house  ! ' 

*  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  be  able  to  forget,'  said  Mr, 
Fane-Smith.  '  I  have  tried  to  deal  kindly  with  you,  tried  to 
take  you  from  this  accursed  place,  and  you  repay  me  by  tempt- 
ing Rose  to  stay  with  you  ! ' 

Erica  had  recovered  herself  by  this  time.  Tom,  watching 
her,  could  not  but  wonder  at  her  self-restraint.  She  did  not 
retaliate,  did  not  even  attempt  to  justify  her  conduct ;  at  such 
a  moment  words  would  have  been  worse  than  useless.  But 
Tom,  while  fully  appreciating  the  common-sense  of  the  non- 
resistance,  was  greatly  astonished.  Was  this  his  old  playmate 
who  had  always  had  the  most  deliciously  aggravating  retort 
ready  1  Was  this  hot-tempei-ed  Erica  1  That  Mr,  Fane-Smith 'a 
words  were  hurting  her  very  much  he  could  see;  he  guessed, 
too,  that  the  consciousness  that  he,  a  Secularist,  was  looking  on 


348  rose's  adventure. 

at  this  unfortunate  display  of  Christian  intolerance,  adcltd  a 
Bting  to  her  grief. 

'  It  is  useless  to  profess  Christianity,'  stormed  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith,  '  if  you  openly  encourage  infidelity  by  consorting  -with 
these  blasphemers.  You  are  no  Christian  L  A  mere  Socinian — 
a  Latitudinarian  ! ' 

Erica's  lips  quivered  a  little  at  this  ;  but  she  remembered 
tliat  Christ  had  been  called  harder  names  still  by  religious 
bigots  of  his  day,  and  she  kept  silence. 

'But  understand  this,'  continued  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  'that  I 
approve  less  than  ever  of  your  intimacy  "with  Rose,  and  until 
you  come  to  see  your  folly  in  staying  here,  your  worse  than 
folly — your  deliberate  choice  of  home  and  refusal  to  put 
religious  duty  first — there  had  better  be  no  more  intercourse 
between  us.' 

'  Can  you  indeed  think  that  religious  duty  ever  requires  a 
child  to  break  the  fifth  commandment  ?'  said  Erica,  with  no 
anger,  but  with  a  certain  sadness  in  her  tone.  '  Can  you  really 
think  that  by  leaving  my  father  I  should  be  pleasing  a  perfectly 
loving  God  1 ' 

'  You  lean  entirely  on  your  own  judgment  ! '  said  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith  ;  '  if  you  were  not  too  proud  to  be  governed  by  authority, 
you  would  see  that  precedent  shows  3'ou  to  be  entirely  in  the 
wrong.  St,  John  rushed  from  the  building  polluted  by  the 
heretic  Cerinthus,  a  man  who,  compared  with  your  father,  was 
almost  orthodox ! ' 

Erica  smiled  faintly. 

'  If  that  story  is  indeed  true,  I  should  think  he  remembered 
before  long  a  reproof  his  intolerance  brought  him  once.  "  Ye 
know  not  what  spirit  ye  are  of."  And  really,  if  we  are  to  fall 
back  upon  tradition,  I  may  quote  the  story  of  Abraham  turning 
the  unbeliever  out  of  his  tent  on  a  stormy  night.  "  I  have 
suffered  him  these  hundred  years,"  was  the  Lord's  reproof, 
"though  he  dishonoured  me,  and  couldest  not  thou  endure  him 
for  one  night  !  "  I  am  sorry  to  distress  you,  but  I  must  do  what 
1  know  to  be  right.' 

'  Don't  talk  to  me  of  right,'  exclaimed  ]\Ir.  Fane-Smith,  with 
a  shudder.  '  You  are  wilfully  putting  your  blaspheming  father 
before  Christ.  But  I  see  my  words  are  wasted.  Let  me  pass ! 
The  air  of  this  house  is  intolerable  to  me  ! ' 

He  hurried  away,  his  anger  flaming  up  again,  when  Tom 
followed  him,  closing  the  door  of  the  cab  with  punctilioua 
politeness.     Rose  was  frightened. 

*  Oil,  papa,'  she  said,  trembling,  'why  are  you  so  angry  1 


rose's  adventure.  349 

you  haven't  been  scolding  Ei'ica  about  itl  If  there  was  any 
fault  anywhere,  the  fault  was  mine.  What  did  you  say  to  her, 
papa?     What  have  you  been  doing]' 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  in  that  stage  of  anger  when  it  is 
pleasant  to  repeat  all  one's  hot  words  to  a  second  audience, 
and,  moreovei",  he  wanted  to  impress  Rose  with  the  enormity 
of  her  visit.  He  repeated  all  that  he  had  said  to  Erica,  inter- 
spersed with  yet  harder  words  about  her  perverse  self-reliance 
and  disregard  for  authority. 

Rose  listened,  but  at  the  end  she  trembled  uo  longer.  She 
had  in  her  a  bit  of  the  true  Raeburn  natui-e,  with  its  love  of 
justice  and  its  readiness  to  stand  up  for  the  oppressed. 

'Papa,'  she  said,  all  her  spoilt-child  manners  and  little 
affectations  giving  place  to  the  most  perfect  earnestness.  '  Papa, 
you  must  forgive  me  for  contradicting  you,  but  you  are  indeed 
very  much  mistaken.  I  may  have  been  silly  to  go  there.  Erica 
did  try  all  she  could  to  persuade  me  to  go  back  to  Greyshot 
yesterday;  but  I  am  glad  I  stayed,  even  though  you  are  so 
angry  about  it.  If  there  is  a  noble,  brave  girl  on  earth,  it  is 
Erica !  You  don't  know  what  she  is  to  them  all,  and  how  they 
all  love  her.  I  will  tell  you  what  this  visit  has  done  for  me. 
It  has  made  me  ashamed  of  myself,  and  I  am  going  to  try  to 
be  wiser,  and  less  selfish.' 

It  was  something  of  an  effort  to  Rose  to  say  this,  but  she 
had  been  very  much  struck  with  the  sight  of  Erica's  home-life, 
and  she  wanted  to  prove  to  her  father  how  greatly  he  had  mis- 
judged her  cousin.  Unfortunately,  there  are  some  people  in 
this  world  who,  having  once  got  an  idea  into  their  heads,  will 
keep  it  in  the  teeth  of  the  very  clearest  evidence  to  the  contrary. 

In  the  meantime,  Tom  had  rejoined  Ei'ica  in  the  hall. 

'How  can  such  a  brute  have  such  a  daughter ]'  he  said. 
♦  Never  mind,  Cugina,  you  were  a  little  brick,  and  treated  him 
much  better  than  he  deserved.  If  that  is  a  Christian,  and 
this  a  Latitudinarian,  and  all  the  other  heresies  he  threw  at 
your  head,  all  I  can  say  is,  commend  me  to  your  sort,  and  may 
I  never  have  the  misfortune  to  encounter  another  of  his  ! ' 

Erica  did  not  reply ;  she  felt  too  sick  at  heart.  She  walked 
slowly  upstau-s,  trying  to  stifle  the  weary  longing  for  Brian, 
\rhich,  though  very  often  present,  became  a  degree  less  bearable 
when  her  isolated  position — between  two  fires,  as  it  were — had 
been  specially  emphasised. 

'That's  a  nice  specimen  of  Christian  charity!'  said  Aunt 
Jean,  as  they  retui-ned  to  the  green-room. 

'  And  he  set  upon  Erica  at  the  door,  and  hurled  hard  namea 


350  rose's  adventure. 

at  her  as  fast  as  he  could  go,'  said  Tom,  proceeding  to  give  a 
detailed  account  of  Mr.  Fane-Smith's  parting  utterances. 

Erica  picked  up  Tottie,  and  held  him  closeh%  turning,  as 
all  lovers  of  animals  do  in  times  of  trouble,  to  the  comforting 
devotion  of  those  dumb  friends  who  do  not  season  their  love  with 
curiosity  or  unasked,  advice,  or  that  pity  which  is  less  sympa- 
thetic than  silence,  and  burdens  us  witli  the  feeling  that  our 
sad  '  case  '  will  be  gossiped  over  in  the  same  pitying  tones  at 
afternoon  teas  and  morning  calls.  Tottie  could  not  gossip,  but 
he  could  talk  to  her  Avith  his  bright  brown  eyes,  and  do  some- 
thing to  fill  a  great  blank  in  her  life. 

Tom's  account  of  the  scene  in  the  hall  made  every  one 
angry. 

'And  yet,'  said  Mrs.  MacNaughton,  'these  Christians,  wlio 
use  of  us  such  language  as  this,  own  as  their  Master  one  who 
taught  that  a  mere  angry  word  which  wounded  a  neighbour 
should  receive  severe  punishment ! ' 

Raeburu  said  nothing,  only  watched  Erica  keenly.  She  was 
leaning  against  the  mantlepiece,  her  eyes  very  sad-looking, 
and  about  her  face  that  expression  of  earnest  listening  which  is 
characteristic  of  those  who  are  beginning  to  learn  the  true 
meaning  of  humility  and  *  righteous  judgment.'  She  had 
pushed  back  the  thick  w-aves  of  hair  Avhich  usi\ally  over- 
shadowed her  forehead,  and  looked  sometliing  between  a  lion 
with  a  tangled  mane  and  a  saint  with  a  halo. 

'  Never  mind,'  said  the  professor,  cheerfully,  '  it  is  to  bigotry 
like  this  that  we  shall  owe  our  recovery  of  Erica.  And  seriously, 
what  can  you  think  of  a  religion  which  can  make  a  man  behave 
like  this  to  one  who  had  never  injured  him,  who,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  befriended  his  child]' 

'It  is  not  Christ's  religion  which  teaches  him  to  do  it,'  said 
Erica,  '  it  is  the  perversion  of  that  religion.' 

*  Tlien  in  all  conscience  the  pervei'sion  is  vastly  more  i)Ower- 
fal  and  extended  than  what  you  deem  the  realit}'.' 

'  Unfortunately  yes,'  said  Erica,  sighing.     '  At  present  it  is.' 

'At  present!'  retorted  tlie  professor,  'why,  you  have  had 
more  than  eighteen  hundred  years  to  improve  in.' 

'  You  yourself  taught  me  to  have  patience  with  the  slow 
processes  of  Nature,'  said  Ilrica,  smiling  a  little.  '  If  you  allow 
unthinkable  ages  for  the  perfecting  of  a  layer  of  rocks,  do  you 
wonder  that  in  a  few  hundred  years  a  church  is  still  far  from 
perfect  V 

'  I  expect  perfection  in  no  human  being,'  said  the  professor, 
taking  up  a  Bible  from  the  table  and  turning  over  the  pages 


rose's  adventure.  351 

with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  its  contents  well :  'when  I 
Bee  Christians  in  some  sort  obeying  this,  I  will  believe  that 
their  system  is  the  trne  system  ;  but  not  before.'  He  guided 
his  finger  slowly  beneath  the  following  lines  :  '  "  Let  all  bittei'- 
ness,  and  wrath,  and  anger,  and  clamour,  and  evil-speaking  be 
put  away  from  you,  with  all  malice."  There  is  the  precept, 
you  see,  and  a  very  good  precept,  to  be  found  in  the  Secularist 
creed  as  well ;  but  now  let  us  look  at  the  practice.  See  how 
we  Secularists  are  treated  !  why,  we  live  as  it  were  in  a  foreign 
]and,  compelled  to  keep  the  law  yet  denied  the  protection  of 
the  law  ! — "  Outlaws  of  the  constitution,  outlaws  of  the  human 
race,"  as  Burke  was  kind  enough  to  call  us.  No  !  when  I  see 
Christians  no  longer  slandering  our  leaders,  no  longer  coining 
hateful  lies  about  us  out  of  their  own  evil  imaginations,  when 
I  see  equal  justice  shown  to  all  men  of  whatever  creed,  then, 
and  not  till  then,  will  I  listen  to  all  those  lofty  assertions  about 
the  all-conquering  love.  Christianity  has  yet  to  prove  itself 
the  religion  of  love  ;  at  present  it  is  the  religion  of  exclusion.' 

Mrs.  MacNaughton,  who  was  exceedingly  fond  of  Erica, 
looked  sorry  for  her. 

*  You  see.  Erica,'  she  said,  'the  professor  judges  by  averages. 
No  one  would  deny  that  some  of  the  greatest  men  in  the  world 
have  been,  and  are  even  in  the  present  day.  Christians ;  they 
have  been  brought  up  in  it,  and  can't  free  themselves  from  its 
trammels.  You  have  a  few  people  like  the  Osmonds,  a  few 
really  liberal  men;  but  you  have  only  to  see  how  they  are 
treated  hj  their  confreres  to  realise  the  illiberality  of  the  religion 
as  a  whole.' 

'  I  think  with  you,'  said  Erica,  *  that  if  the  revelation  of 
God's  love,  and  His  purpose  for  all,  be  only  to  be  learnt  from 
the  lives  of  Christians,  it  is  a  bad  look-out  for  us.  But  God 
has  given  us  one  perfect  revelation  of  Himself,  and  the  perfect 
Son  can  make  us  see  plainly  even  when  the  imperfect  sons  are 
holding  up  to  us  a  distorted  likeness  of  the  Father.' 

She  had  spoken  quietly,  but  with  the  tremulousness  of 
strong  feeling,  and,  moreover,  she  was  so  sensitive  that  the 
weight  of  the  hostile  atmosphere  oppressed  her,  and  made 
speaking  a  great  difficulty.  When  she  had  ended,  she  turned 
away  from  the  disapproving  eyes  to  the  only  sympathetic  eyes 
in  the  room — the  dog's.  They  looked  up  into  hers  with  that 
wistful  endeavour  to  understand  the  meaning  of  something 
beyond  their  grasp,  which  makes  the  eyes  of  animals  so 
pathetic. 

There  was  a  silence;  hor  use  of  the  adjective  'perfect'  had 


352  kose's  adventdre. 

been  very  trying  to  all  her  hearers,  who  strongly  disapproved 
of  the  whole  sentence ;  but  then  she  was  so  evidently  sincere 
and  so  thoroughly  lovable  that  no  one  liked  to  give  her  pain. 

Aunt  Jean  was  the  only  person  who  thought  there  was 
much  chance  of  her  ever  returning  to  the  ranks  of  Secularism  ; 
she  was  the  only  one  who  spoke  now. 

'  Well,  well,'  she  said,  pityingly,  '  you  are  but  young  ;  you 
will  think  very  differently  ten  years  hence.' 

Erica  kept  back  an  angry  retort  with  difficulty,  and  Raebum, 
whose  keen  sense  of  justice  was  offended,  instantly  came  forward 
in  her  defence,  though  her  words  had  been  like  a  fresh  stab  in 
the  old  wonnd. 

'  That  is  no  argument,  Jean,'  he  said,  quickly.  '  It  is  the 
very  nnjust  extinguisher  which  the  elders  use  for  the  suppres- 
sion of  individuality  in  the  young.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  readjusted  a  slide  in  his  microscope,  making 
it  plain  to  all  that  he  intended  the  subject  to  be  dropped.  He 
had  a  wonderful  way  of  impressing  his  individiiality  on  others, 
and  the  household  settled  down  once  more  into  the  Sabbatical 
calm  which  had  been  broken  by  a  bigoted  Sabbatarian. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Rose,  nor  did  Erica  have  an 
opportunity  of  talking  over  the  events  of  that  Sunday  with  her 
father  for  some  days,  for  he  was  exceedingly  busy ;  the  long 
weeks  wasted  during  the  summer  in  the  wearisome  libel  case 
having  left  upon  his  hands  vast  arrears  of  provincial  work.  In 
some  of  the  large  iron  foundries  you  may  see  hundreds  of 
different  machines  all  kept  in  action  by  a  forty  hoi'se-power 
engine  ;  and  Raeburn  was  the  great  motive-power  which  gave 
life  to  all  the  branches  of  Raeburnites  which  now  stretched 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  Without  him 
they  would  have  relapsed,  very  probably,  into  that  fearfully 
widespread  mass  of  indifference  which  is  not  touched  by  any 
form  of  Christianity  or  religious  revival,  but  which  had  re- 
sponded to  the  practical,  secular  teaching  of  the  singularly 
powerful  Secularist  leader.  He  had  a  Avonderful  gift  of  stin-ing 
up  the  heretofore  indifferent,  and  making  them  take  a  really 
deep  interest  in  national  questions.  This  was  by  far  the 
happiest  part  of  his  life,  because  it  was  the  healtliy  part  of  it. 
The  sameness  of  his  anti-theological  work,  and  the  barrenness 
of  mere  down-pulling,  were  distasteful  enough  to  him  ;  he  was 
often  heartily  sick  of  it  all,  and  had  he  not  thought  it  a  posi- 
tive duty  to  attack  what  he  deemed  a  very  mischievous  delusion, 
he  would  gladly  have  handed  over  this  part  of  his  woi'k  to 
some  one  else,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to  national  work. 


rose's  adventure.  353 

He  had  been  away  from  home  for  several  days  lecturing  in 
the  north  of  England.  Erica  was  not  expecting  his  return  till 
the  following^  day,  wlien  one  evening  a  telegram  was  brought  in 
to  her.  •  It  was  fj.-om  her  father  to  this  effect : — • 

'Expect  me  home  hij  mail  train  about  two  a.m.  Place  too  hot 
.0  hold  me..'^* 

He  had  now  to  a  great  extent  lived  down  the  opposition 
«rhich  had  made  lecturing  in  his  younger  days  a  matter  of  no 
ismall  risk  to  life  and  limb  ;  but  Erica  knew  that  there  were 
reasons  wliich  made  the  people  of  Ashborough  particularly 
angry  with  him  just  now.  Ashborough  was  one  of  those 
strange  towns  which  can  never  be  depended  upon.  It  was 
renowned  for  its  riots,  and  was,  in  fact  (to  use  a  slang  word) 
a  '  rowdy '  place.  More  than  once  in  the  old  days  Raeburn  had 
been  roughly  handled  there,  and  Erica  bore  a  special  grudge  to 
it,  for  it  was  the  scene  of  her  earliest  recollection — one  of  those 
dark  pictures  which,  having  been  indelibly  traced  on  the  heart 
of  a  child,  influence  the  whole  character  and  the  future  life  far 
more  than  some  people  think. 

It  was  perhaps  that  old  memory,  which  made  her  waiting  so 
anxious  that  evening.  Moreover,  she  had  at  fii'st  no  one  to 
talk  to,  which  made  it  much  worse.  Aunt  Jean  had  gone  to 
bed  with  a  bad  toothache,  and  must  on  no  account  be  dis- 
turbed ;  and  Tom  had  suddenly  announced  his  intention  that 
morning  of  going  down  to  Brighton  on  his  bicycle,  and  had  set 
off,  rather  to  Ei'ica's  dismay,  since,  in  a  letter  to  Charles 
Osmond,  Donovan  happened  to  have  mentioned  that  the  Fane- 
Smiths  had  taken  a  house  there  for  six  weeks.  She  hated  her- 
self for  being  suspicious ;  but  Tom  had  been  so  unlike  himself 
since  Rose's  visit,  and  it  was  such  an  unheard-of  thing  that  he 
should  take  a  day's  holiday  during  her  father's  absence,  that  it 
was  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  drawing  the  natural  inference. 
She  was  very  unhappy  about  him,  but  did  not  of  course  feel 
justified  in  saying  a  word  to  any  one  else  about  the  matter. 
Charles  Osmond  happened  to  look  in  for  a  few  minutes  later  on, 
expecting  to  find  Raeburn  at  home,  and  then  in  her  relief  she 
did  give  him  an  account  of  the  unfortunate  Sunday,  though 
avoiding  all  mention  of  Tom. 

'It  was  just  like  you  to  come  at  the  very  time  I  was 
wanting  some  one  to  talk  to,'  she  said,  sitting  down  in  her 
favourite  nook  on  the  hearthrug  with  Friskie  on  her  lap.  '  Not 
a  word  has  been  said  of  that  miserable  Sunday  since,  though 
I'm  afraid  a  good  deal  has  been  thought.  After  all,  you  know, 
there  was  a  ludicrous  side  to  it  as  well.  I  shall  never  forget 
16 


.3.")  4  hose's  adventure. 

the  look  of  thcui  all  when  Rose  and  I  came  down  again :  Mr. 
Fane-Smith  standing  there  by  the  table  the  very  incarnation  of 
contemptuons  anger,  and  father  just  here,  looking  like  a  tired 
thunder-clond  !  But,  though  one  laughs  at  one  aspect  of  it,  one 
could  cry  one's  eyes  out  over  the  thing  as  a  whole — indeed, 
just  now  I  find  myself  agreeing  with  Mr,  Tulliver  that  it's  "a 
puzzling  world." ' 

'The  fact  is,'  said  Charles  Osmond,  'that  you  consent 
patiently  enough  to  share  God's  pain  over  those  who  don't 
believe  in  Him ;  but  you  grumble  sorely  at  finding  a  lack  of 
charity  in  the  world  ;  yet  that  pain  is  God's  too.' 

'  Yes,'  sighed  Erica ;  '  but  somehow  from  Christians  it 
seems  so  hard  !' 

'  Quite  true,  child,  he  replied,  half  absently.  '  It  is  hard — 
most  hard.  But  don't  let  it  make  you  uncharitable,  Erica, 
You  are  sharing  God's  pain,  but  remember  it  is  only  His  perfect 
love  which  makes  that  pain  bearable.' 

'  I  do  find  it  hard  to  love  bigots,'  said  Erica,  sighing. 
'  They  !  What  do  they  know  about  the  thousand  difficulties 
which  have  driven  people  into  Secularism?  If  they  could  but 
see  that  they  and  their  narrow  theories  and  their  false  distor- 
tions of  Christ's  Gospel  are  the  real  cause  of  it  all,  there  would 
be  some  hope  !     But  they  either  can't  see  it  or  won't.' 

'  My  dear,  we're  all  a  lot  of  blind  puppies  together,'  said 
Charles  Osmond.  'We  tumble  up  against  each  other  just  for 
want  of  eyes.  We  shall  see  when  we  get  to  the  end  of  the  nine 
days,  you  know.' 

'You  see  now,'  said  Erica ;  '  you  never  hurt  us,  and  rub  us 
the  wrong  way.' 

'  Perhaps  not,'  he  replied,  laughing.  '  But  Mr.  Roberts  and 
some  of  my  other  brethren  w^ould  tell  a  different  tale.  By-the- 
by,  would  you  care  to  help  another  befogged  mortal  who  is  in 
the  region  you  are  safely  out  of]  The  evolution  theory  is  the 
difficulty,  and,  if  you  have  time  to  enter  into  his  trouble,  I 
think  you  could  help  him  much  better  than  I  can.  If  I 
could  see  him  I  might  tackle  him ;  but  I  can't  do  it  on  paper. 
You  could,  I  think  ;  and,  as  the  fellow  lives  at  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  one  can  do  nothing  except  by  correspondence.' 

Erica  was  delighted  to  undertake  the  task,  and  she  was  par- 
ticularly well  fitted  for  it.  Perhaps  no  one  is  really  qualified 
for  the  post  of  a  clearer  of  doubts  who  has  not  himself  faced 
and  conquered  doubts  of  a  similar  nature. 

So  there  was  a  new  interest  for  her  on  that  long,  lonely 
L'vcning,  and,  as  she  waited  for  her  father's    return,  she    hud 


rose's  adventure.  355 

time  to  think  out  quietly  the  various  points  which  she  would 
first  take  vip.  Bv-and-by  she  slept  a  little,  and  then,  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  crept  down  to  the  lower  regions  to  add 
something-  to  the  tempting  little  supper  which  she  had  ready  in 
the  green-i'oom.  But  time  crept  on,  and  in  the  silence  she 
could  hear  dozens  of  clocks  telling  each  hour,  and  the  train  had 
been  long  due,  and  still  her  father  did  not  come. 

At  last  she  became  too  anxious  to  read  or  think  to  any 
purpose  ;  she  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and,  in  spite  of  the  cold, 
curled  herself  up  on  the  window-seat,  with  her  face  pressed 
close  to  the  glass.  Watching,  in  a  literal  sense,  was  impossible, 
fur  there  was  a  dense  fog,  if  possible,  worse  than  the  fog  of  the 
preceding  Saturday,  but  she  had  the  feeling  that  to  be  by  the 
window  made  her  in  some  unaccountable  way  nearer  to  her 
father,  and  it  certainly  had  the  effect  of  showing  her  that  there 
was  a  very  good  reason  for  unpunctuality. 

The  old  square  was  as  quiet  as  death.  Once  a  policeman 
raised  her  hopes  for  a  minute  by  pacing  slowly  up  the  pave- 
ment ;  but  he  passed  on,  and  all  was  still  once  more,  except 
that  every  now  and  then  the  furniture  in  the  room  creaked, 
making  the  eerie  stillness  all  the  more  noticeable.  Erica 
began  to  shiver  a  little,  more  from  apprehension  than  from 
cold.  She  wished  the  telegram  had  come  from  any  otiier  town 
in  England,  and  tried  in  vain  not  to  conjure  up  a  hundred 
horrible  visions  of  possible  catastrophes.  At  length  she  heard 
steps  in  the  distance,  and  straining  her  eyes  to  penetrate  the 
thick  darkness  of  the  murky  night,  was  able  to  make  out  just 
beneath  the  window  a  sort  of  yellow  glare.  She  ran  downstairs 
at  fall  speed  to  oj)en  the  door,  and  there  upon  the  step  stood  a 
link-boy,  the  tawny  light  from  his  torch  showing  up  to  per- 
fection the  magnificent  proportions  of  the  man  in  a  shaggy, 
brown  Inverness  who  stood  beside  him,  and  bringing  into  strong 
relief  the  masses  of  white  hair  and  the  rugged  Scottish  face, 
which,  spite  of  cold  and  great  weariness,  bore  its  usual  expres- 
sion of  philosophic  calm. 

'  I  thought  you  were  never  coming,'  said  Erica.  '  Why,  you 
must  be  half  frozen  !     What  a  night  it  is  !' 

'  We've  been  more  than  an  hour  groping  our  way  from  the 
station,'  said  Raeburn ;  'and  cabs  were  unattainable.'  Then, 
larning  to  the  link-boy,  '  Come  in ;  you  are  as  cold  and  hungry 
as  I  am.     Have  you  got  something  hot,  Eric  1 ' 

'  Soup  and  coffee,'  said  Erica.     '  Which  would  he  like  best  V 

The  boy  gave  his  vote  for  soup,  and,  having  seen  him 
thoroughly  satisfied  and  well-paid,  they  sent  him  home,  and  to 


356  rose's  adventure. 

his  dying  day  he  was  proud  to  tell  the  story  of  the  foggy  night 
when  the  people's  tribune  had  given  him  half  his  own  supper. 
The  father  and  daughter  were  soon  comfortably  installed  beside 
the  green-room  fire,  Ptaeburn  making  a  hearty  meal,  though  it 
was  past  three  o'clock. 

'  I  never  dreamt  of  finding  you  up,  little  son  Ei-ic,'  he  said, 
when  the  warmth  and  the  food  liad  revived  him.  '  I  only 
telegi'aphed  for  fear  you  should  lock  up  for  the  night  aud  leave 
me  to  shiver  unknown  on  the  doorstep.' 

'  But  what  happened  1'  asked  Erica.  'Why  couldn't  you 
lecturer 

'Ashborough  had  worked  itself  up  into  one  of  its  tumults, 
and  the  fools  of  authorities  thought  it  would  excite  a  breach  of 
the  peace,  which  was  excited  quite  as  much  and  probably  more 
by  my  not  lecturing.  But  I'm  not  going  to  be  beaten  !  I 
shall  go  down  there  again  in  a  few  weeks.' 

'  Was  there  any  rioting  V 

'  W^ell,  there  w^as  a  roughish  mob,  who  prevented  my  eating 
my  dinner  in  peace,  and  pursued  me  even  into  my  bedroom ; 
and  some  of  the  Ashborough  lambs  were  kind  enough  to  over- 
turn my  cab  as  I  was  going  to  the  station.  But,  having 
escaped  with  nothing  worse  than  a  shaking,  I'll  forgive  them 
for  that.  The  fact  is,  they  had  burnt  me  in  effigy  on  the  5th, 
and  had  so  much  enjoyed  the  ceremony,  that  when  the  original 
turned  up  they  really  cculdn't  be  civil  to  him,  it  would  have 
been  so  very  tame.  I'm  told  the  effigy  was  such  a  fearful- 
looking  monster  that  it  frightened  the  bairnies  out  of  their 
wits,  specially  as  it  was  first  carried  all  round  the  place  on  a 
parish  coffin  !' 

'What  a  hateful  plan  that  effigy-burning  is!'  said  Erica. 
'  Were  you  not  really  hurt  at  all  when  they  upset  your  cab  V 

*  Perhaps  a  little  bruised,'  said  Raeburn,  '  and  somewhat 
angry  with  my  charitable  opponents.  I  didn't  so  much  mind 
being  overturned,  but  I  hate  being  baulked.  They  shall  have 
the  Icctui'c,  however,  before  long  ;  I'm  not  going  to  be  beaten. 
On  the  whole,  they  couldn't  have  chosen  a  worse  night  for  their 
little  game.  I  seriously  thought  we  should  never  grope  our 
way  home  through  that  fog.  It  has  quite  taken  me  back  to 
my  young  days  when  this  sort  of  thing  met  one  on  every 
hand  ;  and  thei'e  was  no  little  davightcr  to  cheer  me  up  then, 
and  very  often  no  supper,  either.' 

*  That  was  when  you  were  living  in  Blank  Street.' 

*  Yes,  in  a  room  about  the  size  of  a  sentry-box.  It  was  bear- 
able all  except  the  blackbectlcs  !     I've  never  seen  such  beetles 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  357 

before  or  since — twice  the  size  of  the  ordinary  ones.  L  couldn't 
convince  the  landlady  that  they  even  existed,  she  always  main- 
tained that  they  nsver  rose  to  the  attics;  but  one  night  I 
armed  myself  with  Cruden's  Concordance,  and,  thanks  to  its 
weight  and  my  good  aim,  killed  six  at  a  time,  and  produced  the 
corpses  as  evidence.  I  shall  never  forget  the  good  lady's  face  ! 
"  You  see,  sir,"  she  said,  "  they  never  come  by  day ;  they  'atcs 
the  light,  because  their  deeds  is  evil."  ' 

'Were  the  beetles  banished  after  that]'  asked  Erica, 
laughing. 

'  No,  they -went  on  to  the  bitter  end,'  said  Raebura,  with  one 
of  his  bright,  humorous  looks.  'And  I  believe  the  landlady  put  it 
all  down  to  my  atheistical  views — a  just  retribution  for  har- 
bouring such  a  notorious  fellow  in  her  house  !  But  there,  my 
child,  we  mustn't  sit  up  any  longer  gossiping ;  run  off  to  bed. 
I'll  see  that  the  lijihts  are  all  out.' 


CPIAPTER  XXXYII. 

DREEING    OUT    THE    INCH. 

Scepticism  for  that  century  we  must  consider  as  the  decay  of  old  ways 
of  believing,  the  preparation  afar  oii"  for  new-,  better,  and  wider  ways — an 
inevitable  thing.  We  will  not  blame  men  for  it ;  we  will  lament  their 
hard  fate.  We  will  understand  that  destruction  of  old  forms  is  not 
destruction  of  everlasting  substances  ;  tlmt  scepticism,  as  sorrowful  and 
hateful  as  we  see  it,  is  not  an  end  but  a  beginning.  CarjjTle. 

One  June  evening,  an  elderly  man,  with  closely-ci'opped  ii-on- 
grey  hail',  might  have  been  seen  in  a  certain  railway-carriage  as 
the  Folkestone  train  readied  its  destination.  The  Cannon  Street 
platform  was,  as  usual,  the  scene  of  bustle  and  confusion,  most 
of  the  passengers  were  met  by  friends  or  relatives,  others 
formed  a  complete  party  in  themselves,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  the  elderly  man,  there  was  scarcely  a  unit  among  them. 
The  fact  of  his  loneliness  would  not,  of  course,  have  been 
specially  remarkable,  had  it  not  been  that  he  was  evidently  in 
the  last  stage  of  some  painful  illness  ;  he  was  also  a  foreigner, 
and,  not  being  accustomed  to  the  English  luggage  system,  he 
had  failed  to  secure  a  porter  as  the  train  drew  up,  and  so, 
while  others  were  fighting  tlieir  way  to  the  van,  ho,  who  needed 
assistance  more  than  any  of  tlicni,  was  left  to  shift  for  himself. 
He  moved  Avith  great  ditficulty,  dragging  down  from  the 
carriage  a  worn  black  bug,  and  occasionally  muttering  to  him- 


358  DREEIXG  OUT  THE  IXCH. 

self,  not  as  a  peevish  invalid  would  have  done,  but  as  if  it 
were  a  sort  of  solace  to  his  loneliness. 

'  The  hardest  day  I've  had,  this !  If  I  had  but  my  llerz- 
hldttchen  now,  how  quickly  she  would  pilot  me  through  this 
throng.  Ah,  well !  having  managed  to  do  the  rest,  I'll  not  be 
beaten  by  this  last  bit.  Pvtztaasendl  these  English  are  all 
elbows !' 

He  frowned  with  pain  as  the  self-seeking  crowd  pushed  and 
jostled  him,  but  never  once  lost  his  temper,  and  at  length,  after 
long  waiting,  his  turn  came,  and,  having  secured  his  portman- 
teau, he  was  before  long  driving  away  in  the  direction  of 
Bloomsbury.  His  strength  Avas  fast  ebbing  away,  and  the 
merciless  jolting  of  the  cab  evidently  tried  him  to  the  utmost, 
but  he  bore  \ip  with  the  strong  endurance  of  one  who  knows 
that  at  the  end  of  the  struggle  relief  awaits  him. 

'  If  he  is  only  at  home,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  '  all  will  be 
well.  He'll  know  where  I  ought  to  go  ;  he'll  do  it  all  for  me 
in  the  best  wa}^  Ach!  Gott  in  Hiiamel !  but  I  need  some 
one !' 

With  an  excruciating  jerk  the  cab  drew  up  before  a  some- 
what grim-lookmg  house  ;  had  he  arrived  at  the  Himmel  he 
had  just  been  speaking  of,  the  traveller  could  not  have  given  an 
exclamation  of  greater  relief.  He  crawled  up  the  steps,  over- 
ruled some  question  on  the  part  of  the  servant,  and  was  shown 
into  a  brightly-lighted  room.  At  one  glance  he  had  taken  in 
the  whole  of  that  restful  picture  so  welcome  to  his  sore  need. 
It  was  a  good-sized  room,  lined  Avith  books,  which  had  evidently 
seen  good  service,  many  of  them  had  been  bought  with  the 
price  of  foregone  meals,  almost  all  of  them  embodied  some  act 
of  denial.  Above  the  mantlepiece  hung  a  little  oil-painting  of 
a  river  scene,  the  sole  thing  not  strictly  of  a  useful  order, 
for  the  rest  of  the  contents  of  this  study  were  all  ad- 
mirably adapted  for  working  purposes,  but  were  the  reverse  oi 
luxurious. 

Seated  at  the  writing-table  was  the  master  of  the  houso, 
who  had  impressed  his  character  plainly  enough  on  his  sui' 
roundings.  He  looked  up  with  an  expression  of  blank  astonish 
ment  on  hearing  the  name  of  his  visitor,  then  the  astonishmi-nr. 
changed  to  incredulity ;  but,  when  the  weary  traveller  actuall_y 
entered  the  room,  he  started  up  with  an  exclamation  of  delight 
which  very  speedily  gave  place  to  dismay  when  he  saw  how  ill 
his  friend  was. 

'  Why,  Haeberlein  !'  he  said,  grasping  his  hand,  '  what  has 
happened  to  you  V 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  359 

'  Nothing  very  remarkable,'  replied  Haeberlein,  smiling. 
'  Only  a  great  wish  to  see  you  before  I  die.'  Then,  seeing  that 
Raeburn's  face  changed  fearfully  at  these  words,  '  Yes,  it  has 
come  to  that,  my  fi-iend,  I've  a  very  short  time  left,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you ;  can  you  tell  me  of  rooms  near  here,  and  of 
a  decent  doctor]' 

'  Of  a  doctor,  yes,'  said  Raebum,  '  of  one  who  will  save  your 
life,  I  hope;  and  for  rooms — there  ai'e  none  that  I  know  of 
except  in  this  house,  where  you  will  of  course  stay.' 

'  With  the  little  HerzUdttchen  to  nurse  me !'  said  Haeber- 
lein, with  a  sigh  of  weary  content  as  he  sank  back  in  an  arm- 
chair. '  That  would  be  a  very  perfect  ending ;  but  think  what 
the  world  would  say  of  you,  if  I,  who  have  lent  a  hand  to  so 
much  that  you  disapprove,  died  in  your  house ;  inevitably  you 
would  be  associated  with  my  views  and  my  doings.' 

'  Maybe  !'  said  Raeburn.  '  But  I  hope  I  may  say  that  I've 
never  refused  to  do  what  was  right  for  fear  of  unpleasant  con- 
seciuences.  No,  no,  my  friend,  you  must  stay  here.  A  hard 
life  has  taught  me  that,  for  one  in  my  position,  it  is  mere 
waste  of  time  to  consider  what  people  will  say ;  they  will  say 
and  believe  the  worst  that  can  be  said  and  believed  about  me ; 
and  thirty  years  of  this  sort  of  thing  has  taught  me  to  pay  very 
little  regard  to  appearances.' 

As  he  spoke  he  took  up  the  end  of  a  speaking-tube  which 
communicated  with  the  green-room,  Haeberlein  watching  his 
movements  with  the  placid,  weary  indifference  of  one  who  is 
perfectly  convinced  that  he  is  in  the  right  hands.  Presently 
the  door  opened  and  Erica  came  in.  Haeberlein  saw  now,  what 
he  had  half  fancied  at  Salzburg,  that,  although  loving  diminu- 
tives would  always  come  naturally  to  the  lips  when  speaking  of 
Erica,  she  had  in  truth  lost  the  extreme  yovithfulness  of  manner 
which  had  always  characterised  her.  It  had  to  a  great  extent 
been  crushed  out  of  her  by  the  long  months  of  wearing  anxiety, 
and — though  she  was  often  as  merry  and  kittenish  as  ever — 
her  habitual  manner  was  that  of  a  strong,  quick  tempei-ament 
kept  in  check.  The  restraint  showed  in  everything.  She  was 
much  more  ready  to  hear  and  much  less  ready  to  criticise,  her 
humorous  talk  was  freer  from  sarcasrrij  her  whole  bearing 
characterised  by  a  sort  of  quiet  steadfastness  which  made  her 
curiously  like  her  father.  His  philosophical  calm  had  indeed 
been  gained  in  a  very  different  way,  but  in  each  the  calmness 
was  the  direct  result  of  exceptionally  trying  circumstancco 
brought  to  bear  on  a  noble  nature. 

*  Herr  Haeberlein  has  come  here  to  be  nursed,'  said  Raeburn, 


360  DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH. 

when  the  greetings  were  over.  '  Will  you  see  that  a  room  ia 
got  ready,  dear'?' 

He  went  out  into  the  hall  to  dismiss  the  cab,  and  Haeberlein 
seized  the  opportunity  to  correct  his  words. 

'  He  thinks  I  shall  get  better,  but  it  is  impossible,  my 
Herzhldttchcn  ;  it  is  only  a  question  of  weeks  now,  possibly  only 
of  days.     Was  I  wrong  to  come  to  you  1' 

'  Of  course  not,'  she  said,  with  the  sort  of  tender  deference 
with  which  she  always  spoke  to  him.  *  Did  you  think  father 
would  let  you  go  anywhere  elsel' 

'  I  didn't  think  about  it,'  said  Haeberlein,  wearily ;  *  but  he 
wouldn't,  you  see.' 

Kaeburn  returned  while  he  was  speaking,  and  Erica  went 
away  quickly  to  see  to  the  necessary  pi-eparations.  Herr  Hae- 
berlein had  come,  and  she  did  not  for  a  moment  question  the 
rightness  of  her  father's  decision  ;  but  yet  in  her  heart  she  was 
troubled  about  it,  and  she  could  see  that  both  her  aunt  and  Tom 
were  troubled  too.  The  fact  was  that  for  some  time  they  had 
seen  plainly  enough  that  Ilaeburn's  health  was  failing,  and  tliey 
dreaded  any  additional  anxiety  for  him.  A  man  cannot  be  in- 
volved in  continual  and  harassing  litigation,  and  at  the  same 
time  agitate  perseveringly  for  reform,  edit  a  newspaper,  write 
books,  rush  from  Land's  End  to  John  o'  Groat's,  deliver  lectures, 
speak  at  mass  meetings,  teach  science,  befi'iend  every  unjustly 
used  person,  and  get  through  the  enormous  amount  of  corre- 
spondence, personal  supervision,  and  inevitable  interviewing, 
which  falls  to  the  lot  of  every  popular  leader,  without  sooner 
or  later  breaking  down. 

Haeberlein  had  come,  however,  and  there  was  no  help  for  it 
They  all  did  their  very  utmost  for  him,  and  those  last  Aveeks  of 
tender  nursing  were  perhaps  the  happiest  of  his  life.  Raeburn 
never  allowed  any  one  to  see  how  the  lingering  expectation,  the 
dark  shadow  of  the  coming  soitow,  tried  him.  He  lived  his 
usual  busy  life,  snatching  an  hour  whenever  he  could  to  help  in 
the  work  of  nursing,  and  bringing  into  the  sick-room  the  strange 
inliuence  of  his  strength  and  serenity. 

The  time  wore  slowly  on.  Haeberlein,  though  growing  per- 
ceptibly weaker,  still  lingered,  able  now  and  then  to  enter  into 
conversation,  but  for  the  most  part  just  lying  in  patient  silence, 
listening  with  a  curious  impartiality  to  whatever  they  chose  to 
read  to  him,  or  whatever  they  began  to  talk  about.  He  had 
all  his  life  been  a  man  of  no  particular  creed,  and  he  retained 
his  curious  indifference  to  the  end,  though  Erica  found  that  he 
bad  a  sort  of  vague  lielief  in  a  First  Cause,  and  a  shadowy  ei- 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  361 

pcctation  of  a  personal  existence  after  death.  She  found  this 
out  through  Brian,  -nho  had  a  way  of  getting  at  the  minds  of 
his  patients. 

One  very  hot  afternoon  she  had  been  with  him  for  several 
hours,  when  about  five  o'clock  her  father  came  into  the  room. 
Another  prosecution  under  tlie  Blasphemy  Laws  had  just  com- 
menced. He  had  spent  the  whole  day  in  a  stifling  law-court, 
and  even  to  the  dying  man  his  exhaustion  was  apparent. 

'  Things  gone  badly  1 '  he  asked. 

'  Much  as  I  expected,'  said  Raeburn,  taking  up  a  Marshal 
Neil  rose  from  the  table,  and  studying  it  abstractedly.  '  I've  had 
a  sentence  of  Auerbach's  in  my  head  all  day,  "  The  martyrdom 
of  the  modern  world  consists  of  a  long  array  of  thousands  of 
trifling  annoyances."  These  things  are  in  themselves  insigni- 
ficant, but  multiplication  makes  them  a  great  power.  You 
have  been  feeling  this  heat,  I'm  afraid.  I  will  relieve  guard, 
Erica.     Is  your  article  ready  1 ' 

*  Not  quite,'  she  replied,  pausing  to  arrange  Haeberlein's 
pillows,  while  her  father  raised  him. 

'  Thank  you,  little  Herzbldttchen,^  he  said,  stroking  her  cheek, 
'  auf  Wiedersehen.' 

'  Auf  Wiedersehen,''  she  replied,  brightly,  and  gathering  up 
some  papers  ran  downstairs  to  finish  her  work  for  the  Daily 
Review, 

A  few  minutes  later,  Brian  came  in  for  his  second  visit. 

'  Any  change  % '  he  asked. 

'  None,  I  think,'  she  answered,  and  went  on  with  her  writing 
with  an  apprehensive  glance  every  now  and  then  at  the  clock. 
The  oflice  boy  was  mercifully  late,  however,  and  it  must  have 
been  quite  half  an  hour  after  she  had  left  Haeberlein's  room 
that  she  heard  his  unwelcome  ring.  Late  as  it  was,  she  Avas 
obliged  to  keep  him  waiting  a  few  minutes,  for  it  was  exceed- 
ingly difficult  in  those  days  to  get  her  work  done.  Not  only 
was  the  time  hard  to  obtain,  but  the  writing  itself  was  a  diffi- 
culty ;  her  mind  was  occupied  with  so  many  other  things,  and 
her  strength  was  so  overtasked,  that  it  was  often  an  eflbrt 
almost  intolerable  to  sit  down  and  write  on  the  appointed 
subject. 

She  was  in  the  hall  giving  her  manuscript  to  the  boy  when 
she  saw  her  father  come  downstairs  ;  she  followed  him  into  the 
study,  and  one  look  at  his  face  told  her  what  had  happened. 
He  was  leaning  back  in  the  chair  in  which  but  a  few  weeks 
before  she  had  seen  Haeberlein  himself;  it  came  over  her  with  a 
shudder  that  he  looked  almost  as  ill  now  as  his  friend  had  looked, 


3G2  DREEING  ODT  THE  INCH. 

She  sat  down  ou  the  ai'mof  his  chair,  and  slipped  her  hand  into 
bis,  but  did  not  dare  to  break  the  silence.    At  last  he  looked  up. 

'  I  think  you  know  it,'  he  said.      '  It  is  all  over,  Erica.' 

'  Was  Brian  there  1 '  she  asked. 

'  Happily,  yes  ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  The  end 
was  strangely  sudden  and  quite  painless,  just  what  one  woiild 
have  wished  for  him.  But,  oh,  child  !  I  can  ill  spare  such  a 
friend  just  now! ' 

His  voice  failed,  and  great  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He 
let  his  head  rest  for  a  minute  on  Erica's  shoulder,  conscious  of 
a  soft  of  relief  in  the  clasp  of  arms  which  had  so  often,  in  weak 
babyhood,  clung  to  him  for  help,  conscious  of  the  only  comfort 
there  could  be  for  him  as  his  child's  kisses  fell  on  lips,  and  brow, 
and  hair. 

'  I  am  overdone,  child,'  he  said  at  length,  as  though  to 
accoiuit  for  breaking  down,  albeit,  by  the  confession,  which  but 
a  short  time  before  he  would  never  have  made,  that  his  strength 
was  failing. 

All  through  the  dreary  days  that  followed,  Erica  was 
haunted  by  those  w^ords.  The  work  had  to  go  on  just  as  usual, 
and  it  seemed  to  tell  on  her  father  fearfully.  The  very  day 
after  Haeberlein's  death  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  speak 
at  a  mass  meeting  in  the  north  of  England,  and  he  came 
back  from  it  almost  voiceless,  and  so  ill  that  they  were  at  their 
wits'  end  to  know  what  to  do  with  him.  The  morrow  did  not 
mend  matters,  for  the  jury  disagreed  in  the  Blasphemy  Trial, 
and  the  whole  thing  had  to  be  gone  through  again. 

A  more  trying  combination  of  events  could  hai'dly  have  been 
imagined,  and  Erica,  as  she  stood  in  the  crowded  cemetery  next 
day  at  the  funeral,  thought  intinitely  less  of  the  Quixotic  Hae- 
berlein — whom  she  had,  nevertheless,  loved  very  sincerel}^ — than 
of  her  sorely  overtasked  father.  He  was  evidently  in  dread  of 
breaking  down,  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difhculty  that  he 
got  through  his  oration.  To  all  present  the  sight  was  a  most 
painful  one,  and  although  the  musical  voice  wa;?  hoarse  and 
strained,  seeming,  indeed,  to  tear  out  each  sentence  by  sheer 
force  of  will,  the  orator  had  never  carried  his  audience  more 
completely  with  him.  Their  tears  were,  howevei',  more  for  the 
living  than  for  the  dead ;  for  the  man  who  was  struggling  with 
all  his  might  to  restrain  his  emotion,  painfully  spurring  on  his 
exhausted  powers  to  fulfil  the  duty  in  hand.  More  than  once 
Erica  thought  he  would  have  fainted,  and  she  was  fully  pre- 
pared for  the  small  crowd  of  friends  who  gathered  round  her 
afterwards,  begging  her  to  persuade  him  to  rest.     The  worst  of 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  36^ 

it  was  that  she  could  see  no  prospect  of  rest  for  him,  though 
she  knew  how  sorely  he  longed  for  it.  He  spoke  of  it  as  they- 
drove  home. 

'  I've  an  almost  intolerable  longing  for  quiet/  he  said  to  her, 
'  Do  you  remember  Mill's  passage  about  the  two  main  con- 
stituents of  a  satisfied  life — excitement  and  tranquillity  1  How 
willingly  would  I  change  places  to-day  with  that  Tyrolese 
fellow  whom  we  saw  last  year  ! ' 

'  Oh  !  if  we  could  but  go  to  the  Tyrol  again ! '  exclaimed 
Erica  ;  but  Racburn  shook  his  head. 

'  Out  of  the  question  just  now,  my  child  ;  but  next  week, 
when  this  blasphemy  trial  is  over,  I  must  try  to  get  a  few  days' 
holiday — that  is  to  say,  if  I  don't  find  myself  in  prison.' 

She  sighed,  the  sigh  of  one  who  is  burdened  almost  beyond 
endurance.  For  recent  events  had  proved  to  her,  only  too 
plainly,  that  her  confidence  that  no  jury  would  be  found  to 
convict  a  man  under  the  old  blasphemy  laws  was  quite  mis- 
taken. 

That  evening,  however,  her  thoughts  were  a  little  diverted 
from  her  father.  For  the  first  time  for  many  months  she  had 
a  letter  from  Rose.  It  was  to  announce  her  engagement  to 
Captain  Golightly.  Rose  seemed  very  happy,  but  there  was  an 
undertone  of  regret  about  the  letter  which  was  uncomfortably 
suggestive  of  her  flirtation  with  Tom.  Also  there  were  sentences, 
which  to  Erica  were  enigmatical,  about  '  having  been  so  foolish 
last  summer,'  and  wishing  that  she  '  could  live  that  Brighton 
time  over  again.'  All  she  could  do  was  to  choose  the  time 
and  place  for  telling  Tom  with  discrimination.  No  opportunity 
presented  itself  till  late  in  the  evening,  when  she  went  down  as 
usual  to  say  good  night  to  him,  taking  Rose's  letter  with  her. 
Tom  was  in  his  '  den,'  a  small  room  consecrated  to  the  goddess  of 
disorder — books,  papers,  electric  batteries,  crucibles,  chemicals, 
new  temperance  beverages,  and  fishing  rods  were  all  gathered  to- 
gether in  wild  confusion.  Tom  himself  was  stirring  something 
in  a  pipkin  over  the  gas-stove  when  Erica  came  in. 

'  An  infallible  cure  for  the  drunkard's  craving  after  alcohol,' 
he  said,  looking  up  at  her  with  a  smile.  '  "  A  thing  of  my  own 
invention,"  to  quote  the  knight  in  Through  the  Looking-glass. 
Try  some  % ' 

'  No,  thank  you,'  said  Erica,  recoiling  a  little  from  the  very 
odoriferous  contents  of  the  pipkin.  '  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
Rose  this  evening.' 

Tom  started  visibly. 

*  What,  has  Mr.  Fane-Smith  relented  % '  he  asked. 


3G4  DKEEIXG  OUT  THE  INCH. 

*  Rose  had  something  special  to  tell  me,'  said  Erica,  unfolding 
the  letter. 

But  Tom  just  took  it  from  her  hands  without  ceremony,  and 
began  to  read  it.  A  dark  flush  came  over  his  face — Erica  saw 
that  much,  but  afterwards  would  not  look  at  him,  feeling  that 
it  was  hardly  fair.    Presently  he  gave  her  the  letter  once  more. 

'  Thank  you,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  cold  aud  bitter  that  she 
could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  his.  'As  you  probably  see,  I 
have  been  a  fool.  I  shall  know  better  how  to  trust  a  woman  in 
the  future.' 

'  Oh,  Tom,'  she  cried,  '  don't  let  it ' 

He  interrupted  her. 

'  I  don't  wish  to  talk,'  he  said.  '  Least  of  all  to  one  who  has 
adopted  the  religion  which  Miss  Fane-Smith  has  been  brought 
up  in — a  religion  which  of  necessity  debases  and  degrades  its 
votaries.' 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  knew  that  Christianity 
would  in  this  case  be  better  vindicated  by  silence  than  by  words, 
however  eloquent.  She  just  kissed  him  and  wished  him  good 
night.     But  as  she  reached  the  door,  his  heart  smote  him. 

'  I  don't  say  it  has  debased  you,'  he  said,  '  but  that  that  is 
its  natural  tendency.     You  are  better  than  your  creed.' 

'  He  meant  that  by  way  of  consolation,'  thought  Erica  to 
herself,  as  she  went  slowly  upstairs  fighting  with  her  tears. 

But  of  course  the  consolation  had  been  merely  a  shai^per 
stab ;  for  to  tell  a  Christian  that  he  is  better  than  his  creed  is 
the  one  intolerable  thing. 

What  had  been  the  extent  of  the  understanding  with  Rose, 
Erica  never  learnt,  but  she  feared  that  it  must  have  been 
equivalent  to  a  pi'omise  in  Tom's  eyes,  and  much  more  serious 
than  a  mere  flirtation  in  Rose's,  otherwise  the  regret  in  the 
letter  was,  from  one  of  Rose's  way  of  thinking,  inexplicable. 
From  that  time  there  was  a  marked  change  in  Tom  ;  Erica  was 
very  unhappy  about  him,  but  there  was  little  to  be  done,  except, 
indeed,  to  share  all  his  interests  as  much  as  she  could,  and  to 
tiy  to  make  the  home-life  pleasant.  But  this  was  by  no  means 
easy.  To  begin  with,  Raeburn  himself  was  moi'e  difficult  than 
ever  to  work  with,  and  Tom,  who  was  in  a  hard,  cynical  mood, 
called  him  overbearing  where,  in  former  times,  he  would  merely 
have  called  him  decided.  The  very  best  of  men  ai"e  occasionally 
irritable  when  they  are  nearly  worked  to  death  ;  and,  under  the 
severe  strain  of  those  days,  Raeburu's  philosophic  calm  more  than 
once  broke  down,  and  the  quick  Highland  temper,  usually  kept 
in  admirable  restraint,  made  itself  felt. 

It  was  not,  however    for  two  or  three  days  after  Ilaeber 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  365 

lein's  funeral  that  he  showed  any  other  symptoms  of  ilhiess. 
One  evening  they  were  all  present  at  a  meeting  at  the  East- 
end,  at  which  Donovan  Farrant  was  also  speaking.  Raeburn's 
voice  had  somewliat  recovered,  and  he  was  speaking  Avith 
great  force  and  fluency,  when  all  at  once,  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence,  he  came  to  a  dead  pause.  For  half  a  minute  he 
stood  motionless  ;  before  him  were  the  densely  packed  rows 
of  listening  faces,  but  what  they  had  come  there  to  hear  he 
had  not  the  faintest  notion.  His  mind  was  exactly  like  a 
sheet  of  white  paper;  all  recollection  of  the  subject  he  had 
been  speaking  on  was  entirely  obliterated.  Some  men  would 
have  pleaded  illness  and  escaped,  others  would  have  blundered 
on.  But  Raeburn,  who  never  lost  his  presence  of  mind,  just 
turned  to  the  audience,  and  said,  quietly,  '  Will  some  one  have 
the  goodness  to  tell  me  what  I  was  saying  1  My  memory  has 
played  me  a  trick.' 

'  Taxation  ! '  shouted  the  people. 

A  shorthand  writer  close  to  the  platform  repeated  his  last 
sentence,  and  Raeburn  at  once  took  the  cue  and  finished  his 
speech  with  perfect  ease.  Every  one  felt,  however,  that  it  was 
an  uncomfortable  incident,  and,  though  to  the  audience  Raeburn 
chose  to  make  a  joke  of  it,  he  knew  well  enough  that  it  boded 
no  good. 

'  You  ought  to  take  a  rest,'  said  Donovan  to  him,  when  the 
meeting  was  over. 

'  I  own  to  needing  it,'  said  Raeburn.  '  Pogson's  last  bit  of 
malice  will,  I  hope,  be  quashed  in  a  few  days,  and  after  that 
rest  may  be  possible.  He  is  of  opinion  that  "  there  ai'e  mony 
ways  of  killing  a  dog  though  ye  dinna  hang  him,"  and,  upon 
my  word,  he's  not  far  wi'ong.' 

He  was  besieged  here  by  two  or  three  people  who  wanted 
to  ask  his  advice,  and  Donovan  turned  to  Erica. 

'  He  has  been  feeling  all  this  talk  about  Herr  Haeberlein  ; 
people  say  the  most  atrocious  things  about  him,  just  because 
he  gave  him  shelter  at  the  last,'  she  said.  *  Really  sometimes 
the  accusations  are  so  absurd  that  we  ourselves  can't  heljD 
laughing  at  them.  But  though  I  don't  believe  in  being  "  done 
to  death  by  slanderous  tongues,"  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
constant  friction  of  these  small  annoyances  does  tell  on  my 
father  very  perceptibly.  After  all,  you  know  the  very  worst 
form  of  torture  is  merely  the  perpetual  falling  of  a  drop  of 
water  on  the  victim's  head.' 

*  I  suppose  since  last  summer  this  sort  of  thing  has  been  on 
the  increase  ] ' 

*  Indeed  it  has,'  she  replied.     '  It  is  worse,  I  think,  than 


366  DREEING  OUT  TUK  INCH. 

YOU  have  any  idea  of.  You  read  your  daily  paper  and  your 
weekly  review,  but  every  malicious,  irritating  word  put  forth 
by  every  local  paper  in  England,  Scotland,  or  Ireland  comes  to 
us,  not  to  speak  of  all  that  we  get  from  private  sources.' 

On  their  way  home  they  did  all  in  their  power  to  persuade 
Ivaeburn  to  take  an  immediate  holiday,  but  he  only  shook  his 
head. 

'  "  Dree  out  the  inch  Avhen  ye  have  thol'd  the  span," '  he 
said,  leaning  back  wearily  in  the  cab,  but  taking  care  to  give 
the  conversation  an  abrupt  turn  before  relapsing  into  silence. 

At  supper,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  Aunt  Jean  relieved 
lier  fatigue  and  anxiety  by  entering  upon  one  of  her  old  re- 
monstrances with  Erica.  Raeburn  was  not  sitting  at  the 
table ;  he  was  in  an  easy-chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  possibly  she  forgot  his  presence.  But  he  heard  every  word 
that  passed,  and  at  last  started  up  with  angry  impatience. 

'  For  goodness  sake,  Jean,  leave  the  child  alone  ! '  he  said. 
*  Is  it  not  enough  for  me  to  be  troubled  with  bitterness  and 
dissension  outside,  without  having  my  home  turned  into  an 
arguing  shop  1 ' 

'  Erica  should  have  thought  of  that  before  she  deserted  her 
own  party,'  said  Aunt  Jean  ;  '  before,  to  quote  Strauss,  she  had 
recourse  to  "  religious  crutches."  It  is  she  who  has  introduced 
the  new  element  into  the  house.' 

Erica's  colour  rose,  but  she  said  nothing.  Aunt  Jean 
seemed  rather  baffled  by  her  silence.  Tom  watched  the  little 
scene  with  a  sort  of  philosophic  interest.  Raeburn,  conscious 
of  having  spoken  sharply  to  his  sister,  and  fearing  to  lose  his 
temper  again,  paced  the  room  silently.  Finally  he  went  off  to 
his  study,  leaving  them  to  the  unpleasant  consciousness  that 
he  had  been  driven  out  of  his  own  dining-room.  But  when  he 
had  gone  the  quarrel  was  forgotten  altogether ;  they  forgot 
differences  of  creed  in  a  great  mutual  anxiety.  Raeburn's 
manner  had  been  so  unnatural,  he  had  been  so  unlike  himself, 
that  in  their  trouble  about  it  they  entirely  passed  over  the 
original  cause  of  his  anger.  Aunt  Jean  was  as  much  relieved 
as  any  one  when  before  long  he  opened  his  door  and  called  for 
Erica. 

*  I  have  lost  my  address-book,'  he  said  ;  '  have  you  seen  it 
about ] ' 

She  began  to  search  for  it,  fully  aware  that  he  had  given 
her  something  to  do  for  him  just  out  of  loving  consideration, 
and  with  the  hope  that  it  would  take  the  sting  from  her  aunt'a 
hard  words.     When  she  brought  him  the  book,  he  took  her 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  3G7 

face  between  both  his  hands,  kxiked  at  her  steadily  for  a 
minute,  and  then  kissed  her. 

'  All  right,  little  son  Eric,'  he  said,  with  a  sig'h.  '  \\e 
understand  each  other.' 

But  she  went  upstairs  feeling  miserable  about  him,  and  an 
hour  or  two  later,  when  all  the  house  was  silent,  her  feeling  of 
coming  trouble  grew  so  much  that  at  length  she  yielded  to  one 
of  those  strange,  blind  impulses  which  come  to  some  people, 
and  crept  noiselessly  out  on  to  the  dark  landing.  At  first  all 
seemed  to  her  perfectly  still  and  perfectly  dark  ;  but,  looking 
down  the  narrow  well  of  the  staircase,  she  could  see  far  below 
her  a  streak  of  light  falling  across  the  tiles  in  the  passage. 
She  knew  that  it  must  come  from  beneath  the  door  of  the 
study,  and  it  meant  that  her  father  was  still  at  work.  He  had 
owned  to  having  a  bad  headache,  and  had  promised  not  to  be 
late.  It  was  perplexing];  She  stole  down  the  next  flight  of 
stairs  and  listened  'at  -i'om's  door ;  then,  finding  that  he  was 
still  about,  knocked  softly.  Tom,  with  his  feet  on  the  mantle- 
piece,  was  solacing  himself  with  a  pipe  and  a  novel ;  he  started 
uj),  however,  as  she  came  in. 

'  What's  the  matter  ? '  he  asked,  '  is  any  one  ill  1 ' 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  Erica,  shivering  a  little.  '  I  came  to 
know  whether  father  had  much  to  do  to-night ;  did  he  tell 
your 

'  He  was  going  to  write  to  Jackson  about  a  situation  for  the 
eldest  son  of  that  fellow  who  died  the  other  day,  you  know ; 
the  widow,  poor  creature,  is  nearly  worried  out  of  her  life  ;  she 
was  here  this  afternoon.  The  chieftain  promised  to  see  about 
it  at  once  ;  he  wouldn't  let  me  write,  and  of  course  a  letter  from 
himself  will  be  more  likely  to  help  the  boy.' 

*  But  it's  after  one  o'clock,'  said  Erica,  shivering  again  ;  '  he 
can't  have  been  all  this  time  over  it.' 

*  Well,  perhaps  he  is  working  at  something  else,'  said  Tom. 
*  He's  not  been  sleeping  well  lately,  I  know.  Last  night  he 
got  through  thirty-three  letters,  and  the  night  before  he  wrote 
a  long  pamphlet.' 

Erica  did  not  look  satisfied. 

*  Lend  me  your  stove  for  a  minxite,'  she  said ;  '  I  shall  make 
him  a  cup  of  tea,' 

They  talked  a  little  about  the  curious  failure  of  memory 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  evening.  Tom  was  more  like 
himself  than  he  had  been  for  several  days  ;  he  came  downstairs 
with  her  to  carry  a  light,  but  she  went  alone  into  the  study. 
He  had  not  gone  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  however,  when  he 


3GS  DREEING  OUT  THE  INXII. 

heard  a  cry,  then  his  own  name  called  twice  ia  tones  that 
made  him  thrill  all  over  with  a  nameless  fear.  He  rushed 
down  and  pushed  open  the  study  door.  There  stood  Erica 
with  blanched  face  ;  Raeburn  sat  in  his  customary  place  at  the 
writing-table,  but  his  head  had  Mien  forward,  and  though  the 
face  was  partly  hidden  by  the  desk,  they  could  see  that  it  was 
rigid  and  deathly  pale. 

'  He  has  fiiinted,'  said  Tom,  not  allowing  the  worse  fear  to 
ovei'master  him,     '  Run  quick,  and  get  some  water.  Erica.' 

She  obeyed  mechanically.  When  she  returned,  Tom  had 
managed  to  get  Raeburn  on  to  the  floor  and  had  loosened  his 
cravat ;  he  had  also  noticed  that  only  one  letter  lay  upon  the 
desk,  abruptly  terminating  at  '  I  am,  Yours  sincerely.'  Whether 
the  '  Luke  Raeburn '  would  ever  be  added,  seemed  to  Tom,  at 
that  moment,  very  doubtful.  Leaving  Erica  with  her  father, 
he  rushed  across  the  square  to  summon  Brian,  returning  in  a 
very  few  minutes  with  the  comforting  news  that  he  was  at 
home  and  would  be  with  them  immediately.  Erica  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  when  the  quick,  firm  steps  were  heard  on  the 
pavement  outside.  Brian  was  so  closely  associated  with  all 
the  wearing  times  of  illness  and  anxiety  which  had  come  to 
them  in  the  last  six  years,  that  in  her  trouble  she  almost 
forgot  the  day  at  Fiesole,  regarding  him  not  as  her  lover,  but 
{IS  the  man  who  had  once  before  saved  her  father's  life.  His 
very  presence  inspired  her  with  confidence,  the  quiet  authority 
of  his  manner,  the  calm,  business-like  way  in  which  he  directed 
things.  Her  anxiety  fiided  away  in  the  consciousness  that 
he  knew  all  about  it,  and  would  do  everything  as  it  should 
be  done.  Before  very  long  Raeburn  showed  signs  of  returning 
consciousness,  sighed  uneasily ;  then,  opening  his  eyes,  regained 
his  faculties  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost  them. 

'  Hullo  ! '  he  exclaimed,  starting  up.  '  What's  all  this  coil 
about  1     What  are  you  doing  to  me  1 ' 

They  explained  things  to  him. 

*  Oh  !  fainted  did  I ! '  he  said,  musingly.  '  I  have  felt  a 
little  faint  once  or  twice  lately.  What  day  is  it  ]  What  time 
is  it  1 '  Tom  mentioned  the  meeting  of  the  previous  evening, 
and  Raeburn  seemed  to  recollect  himself.  He  looked  at  hia 
watch,  then  at  the  letter  on  his  desk.  '  Well,  it's  my  way  to 
do  things  thoroughly,'  he  said,  with  a  smile  ;  '  I  must  have 
been  off"  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  dis- 
turbed your  slumbers  in  this  way.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  sat  down  composedly  at  his  desk,  picked 
up  the  pen,  and  signed  his  name  to  the  letter.     They  stood 


DREEING  OUT  THE  INCH.  369 

and  watched  him  while  he  folded  the  sheet  and  directed  the 
envelope  ;  his  writing  bore  a  little  more  markedly  than  usual 
the  tokens  of  strong  self-restraint. 

'  Perhaps  you'll  just  drop  that  in  the  jjillar  on  your  way 
home,'  he  said  to  Brian.  '  I  want  Jackson  to  get  it  by  the 
first  post.  If  you  will  look  in  later  on,  I  should  be  glad  to 
have  a  talk  with  you.  At  present  I'm  too  tired  to  be  over- 
haiiled.' 

Then,  as  Brian  left  the  room,  he  turned  to  Erica. 

'  I  am  Sony  to  have  given  you  a  fright,  my  child,  but  don't 
worry  about  me,  I  am  only  a  little  overdone.' 

Again  that  fiital  admission,  which  from  Raeburn's  lips  was 
more  alarming  than  a  long  catalogue  of  dangerous  symptoms 
from  other  men  ! 

There  followed  a  disturbed  night,  and  a  long  day  in  a 
crowded  law-court ;  then  one  of  the  most  terrible  hours  thej' 
had  ever  had  to  endure,  while  waiting  for  the  verdict,  which 
would  either  consign  Raeburn  to  prison  or  leave  him  to  peace 
and  freedom.  So  horrible  was  the  suspense,  that  to  draw 
each  breath  was  to  Erica  a  painful  effort.  Even  Raeburn's 
composure  was  a  little  shaken  as  those  eternal  minutes 
dragged  on. 

The  foreman  returned.  The  court  seemed  to  throb  with 
excitement.  Raeburn  lifted  a  calm,  stern  face  to  hear  his  fate. 
He  knew,  what  no  one  else  in  the  court  knew,  that  this  was  to 
him  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

*  Are  you  agreed,  gentlemen  ] ' 

*  Yes.' 

People  listened  breathlessly. 

*  Do  you  find  the  defendant  guilty,  or  not  1 ' 
'  Not  g-uilty.' 

The  reaction  was  so  sharp  as  to  be  almost  overpowering. 
But  poor  Erica's  joy  was  but  short-lived.  She  looked  at  her 
father's  face,  and  knew  that,  although  one  anxiety  was  ended, 
another  was  abeadj  begun. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

HALCYON  DAYS. 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  autumnal  dayg, 

Which  many  a  lip  doth  praise  ; 

When  the  earth,  tired  a  Uttle,  and  grown  mute 

Of  song,  and  having  borne  its  fruit, 

Eests  for  a  little  ere  the  winter  come. 

It  is  not  sad  to  turn  the  face  toward  home, 

Even  though  it  show  the  journey  nearly  done ; 

It  is  not  sad  to  mark  the  westering  sun. 

Even  though  we  know  the  night  doth  come. 

Silence  there  is,  indeed,  for  song, 

Twilight  for  noon, 

But  for  the  steadfast  soul  and  strong 

Life's  autumn  is  as  Juue. 

From  the  '  Ode  of  Life.* 

•ANriHiNG  in  the  papers  this  evening'?'  asked  a  young  clergy- 
man, who  was  in  one  of  the  carriages  of  the  Metropohtan 
Railway  late  in  the  afternoon  of  an  August  day. 

'  Nothing  of  much  interest,'  replied  his  wife,  handing  him 
the  newspaper  she  had  been  glancing  through.  '  I  see  that 
wretched  Raeburn  is  ilL       I  wish  he'd  die.' 

'  Oh !  broken  down  at  last,  has  he  ] '  said  the  other. 
'  AVhere  is  it  ]  Oh  yes,  I  see.  Ordered  to  take  immediate  and 
entire  rest.  Will  be  paralysed  in  a  week,  if  he  doesn't.  Plea- 
sant alternative  that !  Result  of  excessive  overwork.  Fancy 
calling  his  blasphemous  teaching  work  !  I  could  hang  that 
man  with  my  own  hands  ! ' 

Erica  had  had  a  long  and  harassing  day.  She  was  re- 
turning from  the  City,  where  she  had  gone  to  obtain  leave  of 
absence  from  Mr.  Bircham ;  for  her  father  was  to  go  into  the 
quietest  country  place  that  could  be  found,  and  she  of  course 
was  to  accomjjany  him.  At  the  Daily  Ilevleiv  office  she  had 
met  with  the  greatest  kindness,  and  she  might  have  gone 
home  cheered  and  comforted  had  it  not  been  her  lot  to  over- 
liear  this  conversation.  Tom  was  with  her.  She  saw  him 
hastily  transcribing  the  uncharitable  remarks,  and  knew  that 
the  incident  would  figure  in  next  week's  Idol-Breaker.  It 
was  only  a  traceable  instance  of  the  harm  done  by  all  such 
words. 

*  Will  you  change  carriages  ] '  asked  Tom. 


HALCYON  DATS.  371 

'Yes,'  she  said;  and  as  she  rose  to  go  she  quietly  handed 
her  card  to  the  lady,  who,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  leamt  a  lesson 
thereby. 

But  it  would  be  unjust  to  show  only  the  dark  side  of  the 
picture.  Great  sympathy  and  kindness  was  shown  them  at 
that  time  by  many  earnest  and  orthodox  Christians,  and  thougli 
Kaeburn  used  to  accept  this  sympathy  with  the  remark,  ■'  You 
see,  humanity  overcomes  the  balefid  influences  of  religion  in  the 
long-run,'  yet  he  was  always  touched  and  pleased  by  tRe 
smallest  sign  of  fiiendliuess ;  while  to  Erica  such  considerate- 
ness  was  an  inestimable  help.  The  haste  and  confusion  of 
those  days,  added  to  the  anxiety,  told  severely  on  her  strength ; 
but  there  is  this  amount  of  good  in  a  trying  bit  of  '  hurrying 
life,'  the  rest,  when  it  comes,  is  doubly  restful. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  on  an  August  evening  when  Rae- 
burn  and  Erica  reached  the  little  country  town  of  Firdale. 
They  were  to  take  up  their  abode  for  the  next  six  weeks  at  a 
village  about  three  miles  off,  one  of  the  few  remaining  places  in 
England  which  maintained  its  primitive  simplicity,  its  peaceful 
quiet  having  never  been  disturljed  by  shriek  of  whistle  or  snort 
of  engine. 

The  journey  from  town  had  been  short  and  easy,  but  Rae- 
burn  was  terribly  exhausted  by  it;  he  complained  of  such 
severe  headache  that  they  made  up  their  minds  to  stay  that 
night  at  Firdale,  and  were  soon  comfortably  established  in  the 
most  charming  old  inn,  which  in  coaching  days  had  been  a 
place  of  note.  Here  they  dined,  and  afterwards  Raeburn  fell 
asleep  on  a  big  old-fashioned  sofa,  while  Erica  sat  by  the  open 
window,  able  in  spite  of  her  anxiety  to  take  a  sort  of  restful 
interest  in  watching  the  traffic  in  the  street  below.  Such  a 
quiet,  easy-going  life  these  Firdale  people  seemed  to  lead.  They 
moved  in  such  a  leisurely  way ;  bustle  and  hurry  seemed  an 
unknown  thing.  And  yet  this  was  market-day,  as  was  evident 
by  the  countrywomen  with  their  baskets,  and  by  occasional 
processions  of  sheep  or  cattle.  One  man  went  slowly  by  driving 
a  huge  pig ;  he  was  in  sight  for  quite  five  minutes,  dawdling 
along,  and  allowing  the  pig  to  have  his  own  sweet  will  as  far  as 
speed  was  concerned,  but  occasionally  giving  him  a  gentle  poke 
with  a  stick  when  he  paused  to  burrow  his  nose  in  the  mud. 
Small  groups  of  men  stood  talking  at  the  corner  of  the  market- 
place ;  a  big  family  went  by,  evidently  I'eturning  from  a  country 
walk ;  presently  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  then  immense 
excitement  reigned  in  the  little  place,  for  at  the  corner  where 
the  two  main  streets  crossed  each  other  at  right  angles  a  cheap- 


372  HALCYON  DAYS. 

jack  had  set  np  his  stall,  and,  with  flarincj  naptha  lamps  to 
show  lip  his  goods,  was  selling  by  auction  tljc  most  wonderful 
clocks  at  the  very  lowest  prices  —  in  fact,  the  most  superior 
glass,  china,  clothing,  and  furniture  that  the  people  of  Firdale 
had  ever  had  the  privilege  of  seeing.  Erica  listened  with  no 
little  amusement  to  his  fervid  appeals  to  the  people  not  to  lose 
this  golden  opportunity,  and  to  the  shy  responses  of  the  small 
crowd  which  had  been  attracted,  and  which  lingered  on,  tempted 
yet  cautious,  until  the  cheap-jack  had  worked  himself  up  into  a 
white  heat  of  energetic  oratory,  and  the  selling  became  brisk 
and  lively. 

By-and-by  the  silvery  moonlight  began  to  flood  the  street, 
contrasting  strangely  with  the  orange  glare  of  the  lamps. 
Erica  still  leant  her  head  against  the  window-frame,  still  looked 
out  dreamily  at  the  Firdale  life,  while  the  soft  night  wind 
lightly  lifted  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and  seemed  to  lull  the 
pain  at  her  heart. 

It  was  only  in  accordance  with  the  general  peacefulnesa 
when  by-and-by  her  father  crossed  the  room,  looking  more  like 
himself  than  he  had  done  for  some  days. 

'  I  am  better,  Eric,'  he  said,  cheerfully — '  better  already. 
It  is  just  the  consciousness  that  there  is  nothing  that  need  bo 
done.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  sleep  to  night.'  He  looked  out  at 
the  moon-lit  street.  '  What  a  perfect  night  it  is  !'  he  exclaimed. 
'  What  do  you  say,  little  one,  shall  we  drive  over  to  this  rural 
retreat  now  ?  The  good  folks  were  told  to  have  everything 
ready,  and  they  can  hardly  lock  up  before  ten.' 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  him  take  an  interest  in  anything, 
and  so  greatly  relieved  by  his  recovery  of  strength  and  spirits, 
that  she  gladly  fell-in  with  the  plan,  and  before  long  they  set 
off  in  one  of  the  wagonettes  belonging  to  the  '  Shrub  Inn.' 

Firdale  wound  its  long  street  of  red-roofed  houses  along  a 
sheltered  valley  in  between  fir-crowned  heights ;  beyond  the 
town  lay  rich,  fertile-looking  meadows,  and  a  winding  river 
bordered  by  pollard  willows.  Looking  across  these  meadows, 
one  could  see  the  massive  tower  of  the  church,  its  white 
])!nnaclcs  standing  out  shaii")  and  clear  in  the  moonlight.  As 
Kaeburn  and  Erica  crossed  tlie  bridge  leading  out  of  the  town, 
tlie  clock  in  the  tower  struck  nine,  and  the  old  chimes  began  to 
play  the  tune  which  every  three  hours  fell  on  the  ears  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Firdale. 

'  "  Life  let  us  cherish,"  '  said  Raeburn,  with  a  smile.  *  A 
good  omen  for  us,  little  one.' 

And  whether  it  was  the  mere  fact  that  he  looked  so  much 


HALCYON  DAYS.  373 

more  cheerful  already,  or  whether  the  dear  old  tune,  with  its 
resolute  good-humour  and  determination  to  make  the  best  of 
things,  acted  upon  Erica's  sensitive  nature,  it  would  be  hard  to 
say,  but  she  somehow  shook  off  all  her  cares,  and  enjoyed  the 
novelty  of  the  moonlight  drive  like  a  child.  Before  long  they 
were  among  the  fir-trees,  driving  along  the  sandy  road,  the  sweet 
night  air  laden  with  the  delicious  scent  of  pine  needles,  and  to 
the  over-worked  Londoners  in  itself  the  most  delicious  refre-h- 
ment.  All  at  once  Raeburn  ordered  the  driver  to  stop,  and, 
getting  out,  stooped  down  by  the  roadside. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  asked  Erica, 

'Heather!'  he  exclaimed,  tearing  it  up  by  handfuls  and 
returning  to  the  carriage  laden.  '  There  !  shut  your  eyes  and 
bury  your  face  in  that,  and  you  can  almost  fancy  you'i'e  on  a 
Scottish  mountain.  Bi'ian  deserves  anything  for  sending  us  to 
the  land  of  heather;  it  makes  me  feel  like  a  boy  again]' 

The  three  miles  were  all  too  short  to  please  them  ;  but  at 
last  they  reached  the  little  village  of  Milford,  and  were  set 
down  at  a  compact-looking,  white  house  known  as  '  Under  the 
Oak.' 

'  That  direction  is  charming,'  said  Raeburn,  laughing ; 
*  imagine  your  business  letters  sent  from  the  Daily  Review  office 
to  "Miss  Raeburn,  Under  the  Oak,  Milford!"  They'll  think 
we're  living  in  a  tent.     You'll  be  nicknamed  Deborah  !' 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning  that  they  fully  under- 
stood the  appropriateness  of  the  direction.  The  little  white 
house  had  been  built  close  to  the  grand  old  oak  which  was  the 
pride  of  Milford.  It  was  indeed  a  giant  of  its  kind  ;  there  was 
something  wonderfully  fine  about  its  vigorous  spread  of  branches 
and  its  enormous  girth.  Close  by  was  a  peaceful-looking  river, 
flowing  between  green  banks  fringed  with  willow  and  marestail 
and  pink  river-herb.  The  house  itself  had  a  nice  little  garden, 
gay  with  geraniums  and  gladiolus,  and  bounded  by  a  hedge  of 
sunflowers  which  would  have  gladdened  the  heart  of  an  sesthete. 
All  was  pure,  fresh,  cleanly,  and  perfectly  quiet.  From  tiie 
windows  nothing  was  to  be  seen  except  the  village  green  with 
its  flocks  of  geese  and  its  tall  sign-post ;  the  river  describing 
a  soit  of  horse-shoe  curve  round  it,  and  spanned  by  two 
picturesqiie  bridges.  In  the  distance  was  a  small  chvirch  and 
a  little  cluster  of  houses,  the  '  village '  being  completed  by  a 
blacksmith's  forge  and  a  post-oftice.  To  this  latter  place  they 
had  to  pay  a  speedy  visit,  for,  much  to  Raeburn's  amusement, 
Erica  had  forgotten  to  bring  any  ink. 

'  To  think  that  a  writer  in  the  Daily  Review  should  forget 


374  HALCYON  DAYS. 

such  a  necessary  of  life  !'  he  said,  smHing.  '  One  would  think 
you  were  your  little  "  Cartesian-well "  cousin  instead  of  a 
journalist  !' 

However,  the  post-office  was  capable  of  supplying  almost 
anythuig  likely  to  be  needed  in  the  depths  of  the  country  ;  you 
could  purchase  there  bread,  cakes,  groceries,  bob-nailed  boots, 
paper,  ink,  and  most  delectable  toffee  ! 

The  relief  of  tlie  country  quiet  was  unlike  anything  which 
Erica  had  known  before.  There  was,  indeed,  at  first  a  good 
deal  of  anxiety  about  her  father.  His  acquiescence  in  idleness, 
his  perfect  readiness  to  spend  whole  days  without  even  opening 
a  book,  proved  the  seriousness  of  his  condition.  For  the  first 
week  he  was  more  completely  prostrated  than  she  had  ever 
known  him  to  be,  He  would  spend  whole  days  on  the  river, 
too  tired  even  to  speak,  or  would  drag  himself  as  far  as  the 
neighbouring  wood  and  stretch  himself  at  full  length  luider  the 
trees,  while  she  sat  by  sketching  or  writhig.  But  Brian  was 
satisfied  with  his  impi'ovement,  when  he  came  down  on  one  of 
his  periodical  visits,  and  set  Erica's  mind  at  rest  about  him. 

'  Your  father  has  such  a  wonderfid  constitution,'  he  said,  as 
they  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  little  garden.  '  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if,  in  a  couple  of  months,  he  is  as  strong  as  evor ; 
though  most  men  would  probably  feel  such  an  overstrain  to  the 
end  of  their  days.' 

After  that,  the  time  at  Milford  was  pure  happiness.  Erica 
learnt  to  love  every  inch  of  that  lovely  neighbourhood,  from  the 
hill  of  Rooksbui'y,  with  its  fir-clad  heights,  to  Trencham  Lake 
nestled  down  among  the  surrounding  heath  hills.  In  after- 
years  she  liked  to  recall  all  those  peaceful  days,  days  when  time 
had  ceased  to  exist — at  any  rate,  as  an  element  of  friction  in 
life.  There  was  no  hurrying  here,  and  the  recollection  of  it 
afterwards  was  a  perpetual  happiness.  The  quiet  river  where 
they  had  one  day  seen  an  otter,  a  marked  event  in  their  un- 
eventful days  ;  the  fai-m  with  its  red  gables  and  its  crowd  of 
gobbling  turkeys  ;  the  sweet-smelling  fir  groves  with  their 
sandy  paths ;  and  their  own  particular  wood  where  beeches, 
(.aks,  and  silvery  birch-trees  were  intermingled,  with  liero  and 
there  a  tall  pine  sometimes  stately  and  erect,  sometimes  blown 
aslant  by  the  wind. 

Here  the  winding  paths  were  bordered  with  golden  moss, 
and  sheltered  by  a  tangled  growth  of  bracken  and  bramble 
with  now  and  then  a  little  clump  of  heather  or  a  patch  of  blue 
harebells.  Every  nook  of  that  place  grew  familiar  to  them  and 
had  its  special  associations.     There  was  the  shady  pari   under 


HALCYON  DAYS.  375 

the  beeches  where  they  spent  the  hot  cb^-s,  and  this  was  always 
associated  with  fragments  of  'Macbeth'  and  'Juhus  Csesar/ 
There  was  the  cosy  nook  on  the  fir  hill  where  in  cool  September 
they  had  read  volume  after  volume  of  Walter  Scott,  Raeburu 
not  being  allowed  to  have  anything  but  light  literature,  and 
caring  too  little  for  'society'  novels  to  listen  to  them  even  now. 
There  was  the  prettiest  part  of  all  down  below,  the  bit  of  sandy 
cliff  riddled  with  nest  holes  by  the  sand-martins ;  hei'e  they 
discovered  a  little  spring,  the  natural  basin  scooped  out  in  the 
rock,  festooned  with  ivy  and  thickly  coated  with  the  pretty 
green  liverwort.  Never  surely  was  water  so  cold  and  clear  as 
that  which  flowed  into  the  basin  with  its  ground  of  white  sand, 
and  overflowed  into  a  little  trickling  stream  ;  while  in  the 
distance  was  heard  the  roar  of  the  river  as  it  fell  into  a  small 
waterfall.  There  was  the  ford  from  which  the  place  was  named, 
and  which  Erica  associated  with  a  long  happy  day  when  Brian 
had  come  down  to  see  her  father.  She  remembered  how  they 
had  watched  the  carts  and  horses  splashing  tlirough  the  clear 
water,  going  in  muddy  on  one  side  and  coming  out  clean  on  the 
other.  She  had  just  listened  in  silence  to  the  talk  between 
Brian  and  her  father,  which  happened  to  turn  on  Donovan 
Farrant. 

They  discussed  the  eff"ect  of  early  education  and  sur- 
roundings upon  the  generality  of  men,  and  Raeburn,  while 
prophesying  great  things  for  Donovan's  future,  and  hoping 
that  he  might  live  to  see  his  first  Budget,  rather  surprised  them 
both  by  what  he  said  about  his  tolerably  well-known  early  life. 
He  was  a  man  who  found  it  very  difficult  to  make  allowances 
for  temptations  he  had  never  felt,  he  was  convinced  that  under 
Donovan's  circumstances  he  should  have  acted  very  differently, 
and  he  made  the  common  mistake  of  judging  others  by  himself. 
His  ruggedly  honest  nature  and  stern  sense  of  justice  could  not 
get  over  those  past  failings.  However,  this  opinion  about  the 
past  did  not  interfere  with  his  present  liking  of  the  man.  He 
liked  him  much  ;  and  when,  towards  the  end  of  their  six  weeks' 
stay  at  Millford,  Donovan  invited  them  to  Oakdene,  he  was 
really  pleased  to  accept  the  invitation.  He  hoped  to  be  well 
enough  to  speak  at  an  important  political  meeting  at  Ash- 
borough  about  the  middle  of  October,  and  as  Ashborough  was 
not  far  from  Oakdene,  Donovan  wrote  to  propose  a  visit  there 
en  route. 

At  length  the  last  evening  came.  Raeburn  and  Erica 
climbed  Rooksbury  for  the  last  time,  and  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  walked  slowly  home. 


376  ASHBOROUGH. 

'  I  have  alwaj's  dreaded  old  age,'  he  said.  *  But  I  shall 
dread  it  no  more.  This  has  been  a  foretaste  of  the  autumn  of 
life,  and  it  has  been  very  peaceful.  I  don't  see  why  the  winter 
should  not  be  the  same,  if  I  have  you  with  me,  little  one.' 

'  You'll  have  me  as  long  as  I  am  alive,'  she  said,  giving  his 
strong  hand  a  little  loving  squeeze. 

'  Truth  to  tell,'  said  Eaeburn,  '  I  thought  a  few  weeks  ago 
that  it  would  be  a  case  of — "  Here  lies  Luke  Raeburn,  who 
died  of  litigation  ! "  But,  after  all,  to  be  able  to  work  to  the 
last  is  the  happiest  lot.  'Tis  an  enviable  thing  to  die  in 
harness.' 

Tliey  were  walking  up  a  hill,  a  sort  of  ravine  with  steep 
high  banks  on  either  side,  and  stately  pines  stretching  their 
blue-green  foliage  up  against  the  evening  sky.  A  red  glow  of 
sunset  made  the  dark  stems  look  like  fiery  pillars,  and  presently 
as  they  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  the  great  crimson  globe 
was  revealed  to  them.  They  both  stood  in  perfect  silence 
watching  till  it  sank  below  the  horizon. 

And  a  great  peace  filled  Erica's  heart,  though  at  one  time 
her  father's  wish  would  have  made  her  sad  and  apprehensive. 
In  former  times  she  had  set  her  whole  heart  on  his  learning 
before  death  that  he  was  teaching  eiTor.  Now  she  had  learnt 
to  add  to  '  Thy  will  be  done,'  the  clause  which  it  takes  some  of 
us  a  lifetime  to  learn  to  say,  ^Not  my  will.' 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ASHBOROUGH. 

There's  a  brave  fellow !    There's  a  man  of  pluck ! 
A  man  who  is  not  afraid  to  say  his  say, 
Though  a  whole  town's  against  him, 

Longfellow. 

A  man's  love  is  the  measure  of  his  fitness  for  good  or  bad  company 
here  or  elsewhere.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

The  week  at  Oakdene  proved  in  every  way  a  success ;  Raeburn 
liked  his  host  heartily,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  house  was 
a  revelation  to  him.  The  last  morning  there  had  been  a  little 
clouded,  for  news  had  reached  them  of  a  terrible  colliery 
accident  in  the  north  of  England.  The  calamity  had  a  special 
gloom  about  it,  for  it  might  very  easily  have  been  prevented, 
the  owners  havim?  long  known  that  the  mine  was  unsafe. 


ASHBOROUGH.  377 

*  I  must  say  it  is  a  little  hard  to  see  how  such  a  horrible 
sin  as  carelessness  of  the  lives  of  human  beings  can  ever  bring 
about  the  greater  good  -which  we  believe  evil  to  do,'  said  Erica, 
as  she  took  her  last  walk  in  the  wood  with  Donovan. 

'  'Tis  hard  to  see  at  the  time,'  he  replied.  '  But  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  so.  The  sin  is  never  good,  never  right ;  but 
when  men  will  sin,  then  the  result  of  the  sin,  however  frightful, 
brings  about  more  good  than  the  persevei-ance  in  sin  with  no 
catastrophe  would  have  done.  A  longer  deferred  good,  of  course, 
than  the  good  which  would  have  resulted  by  adhering  from  the 
first  to  the  right,  and  so  far  inferior.' 

'  Of  course,'  said  Erica,  '  I  can  see  that  a  certain  amount  of 
immediate  good  may  result  from  this  disaster.  It  will  make 
the  owners  of  other  mines  more  careful.' 

'  And  what  of  the  hundred  unseen  workings  that  will  result 
from  it  ? '  said  Donovan,  smiling.  '  In  the  first  shock  of  horror 
one  cannot  even  glimpse  the  larger  view,  but  later  on ■' 

He  paused  for  a  minute  ;  they  were  down  in  the  valley  close 
to  the  little  church  ;  he  opened  the  gate,  and  led  the  way  to 
a  bench  under  the  great  yew-tree.  Sitting  here,  they  could  see 
the  recumbent  white  cross,  with  its  ever  fresh  crown  of  white 
flowers.     Erica  knew  something  of  the  story  it  told. 

'  Shall  I  tell  you  what  tui-ned  me  from  an  anti-theist  to  an 
atheist,'  said  Donovan.  '  It  was  the  horror  of  knowing  that  a 
little  child's  life  had  been  ruined  by  carelessness.  I  had  been 
taught  to  believe  in  a  terrific  phantom,  who  was  severely  just ; 
but  when  it  seemed  that  the  one  quality  of  justice  was  gone, 
then  I  took  refuge  in  the  conviction  that  there  could  be  no  God 
at  all.  That  was  a  refuge  for  the  time,  for  it  is  better  to  believe 
in  no  God  than  to  believe  in  an  immoral  God,  and  it  was  long 
years  before  a  better  refuge  found  me.  Yet,  looking  back  now 
over  these  seven  and  twenty  years,  I  see  how  that  one  little 
child's  suffering  has  influenced  countless  lives  !  how  it  was 
just  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  could  have  happened  to 
her!' 

Erica  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  she  read  half-dreamily 
the  words  engraved  on  the  tombstone.  Nearly  sixteen  years 
since  that  short,  uneventful  life  had  passed  into  the  Unseen, 
and  yet  little  Dot  was  at  this  moment  influencing  the  world's 
history ! 

She  was  quite  cheerful  again  as  they  walked  home,  and, 

indeed,  her  relief  about  her  father's  recovery  was  so  great  that 

she  could  not  be  unhappy  for  long  about  anything.    They  found 

Raeburn  on  the  terrace  with  Ralph  and  Dolly  at  his  heels,  and 

17 


378  ASHDOKOUGH. 

the  two-year-old  bii'oj,  who  went  by  the  name  of  '  Pickle '  on 
his  shoulder. 

'I  shall  quite  miss  these  bairnies,'  he  said,  as  Donovan 
joined  them. 

'  Gee  up,  horsey  !  Gee  ap  !'  shouted  Pickle,  f.-om  his  lofty 
perch, 

'And  oh,  daddy,  rnay  we  go  into  Gleyshot  wiv  you?'  said 
Dolly,  coaxingly.     '  Elica's  father's  going  to  give  me  a  play-cat.' 

'  And  me  a  whip,'  interposed  Palph.  '  We  may  come  with 
you,  father,  mayn't  we  1 ' 

'  Oh  !  yes,'  said  Donovan,  smiling,  '  if  ilr.  Ptaeburn  doesn't 
mind  a  crowded  carriage.' 

Erica  had  gone  into  the  house. 

'  I  don't  know  how  to  let  you  go,'  said  Gladys.  '  We  have 
so  much  enjoyed  having  you.  I  think  you  had  much  better 
stay  here  till  Monday,  and  leave  those  two  to  take  care  of 
themselves  at  Ashborough.' 

'  Oh,  no,'  said  Erica,  smiling,  '  that  would  never  do  !  You 
don't  realise  what  an  event  this  is  to  me.  It  is  the  first 
time  fiither  has  spoken  since  his  illness.  Besides,  I  have  not  yet 
quite  learnt  to  think  him  well  enough  to  look  after  himself, 
though  of  course  he  is  getting  quite  strong  again.' 

'  Well,  since  you  will  go,  come  and  choose  a  book  for  your 
journey,'  said  Gladys. 

'  Oh,  I  should  like  that,'  said  Erica ;  '  a  nice,  homeish  sort  of 
book,  please,  Avhere  the  people  lived  in  Arcadia  and  never  heard 
of  law-courts  ! ' 

Early  in  the  afternoon  they  drove  to  Greyshot,  stopping 
first  of  all  at  the  toy-shop.  Piaeburn,  who  was  in  excellent 
spirits,  fully  entered  into  the  difficulties  of  Dolly's  choice.  At 
length  a  huge  toy-cat  was  produced. 

'Oh,  I  should  like  that  one  !'  said  Dolly,  clapping  her  hands  : 
'  what  a  'normous,  gleat  big  cat  it  is  ! ' 

'  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  it  was  meant  for,'  said 
Raebum,  scrutinising  the  rather  shapeless  furry  quadruped. 
'  How  is  it  that  you  can't  make  them  more  like  cats  than  this]* 

'I  don't  know,  sir,  how  it  is,'  said  the  shopwoman  ;  'we  get 
very  good  dogs,  and  rabbits,  and  donkeys,  but  they  don't  seem 
to  have  attained  to  the  making  of  cats.' 

This  view  of  the  matter  so  tickled  Ptaeburn  that  he  left 
Pialph  and  Dolly  to  see  the  '  'normous  gleat  big  cat '  wrapped 
up,  and  went  out  of  the  shop  laughing. 

But  just  outside,  a  haggard,  wild-looking  man  came  up  to 
him,  and  began  to  address  him  in  excited  tones. 


ASHBOROUGH.  379 

'You  are  that  vile  atheist,  Luke  Raebiim  !'  he  cried,  *oh, 
I  kuow  you  well  enough.  I  tell  you,  you  have  lost  my  son's 
soul;  do  you  hear,  wi etched  infidel,  you  destroyed  my  son's 
soul  !  His  guilt  is  upon  you  !  And  I  will  have  vengeance ! 
vengeance  !' 

'My  friend,'  said  Raeburu,  quietly,  '  supposing  yoiu' son  had 
uhat  you  call  a  soul,  do  you  think  that  I,  a  man,  should  be  able 
to  destroy  it  V 

'  You  have  made  him  what  you  are  yourself,'  cried  the  man, 
'  an  accursed  infidel,  an  incarnate  devil  !  but  I  tell  you  I  will 
have  vengeance,  vengeance  !' 

'  Have  the  goodness  not  to  come  so  near  my  daughter,'  said 
llacbui-n ;  for  the  man  was  pushing  up  roughly  against  Erica, 
who  had  just  come  out  of  the  shop.  The  words  were  spoken 
in  such  an  authoritative  manner  that  the  man  shrank  back 
awed,  and  in  another  minute  the  children  had  rejoined  them, 
and  they  drove  off  to  the  station. 

'  What  was  that  man  saying?'  asked  Erica. 

'Apparently  his  son  has  become  a  Secularist,  and  he  means 
to  revenge  himself  on  me,'  said  Raeburu.  '  If  it  wouldn't  have 
lost  me  this  train  I  would  have  given  him  in  charge  for  using 
threatening  language.  But  no  doubt  the  poor  fellow  was  half- 
witted.' 

Donovan  had  walked  on  to  the  station  and  so  had  missed 
this  incident,  and  though  for  the  time  it  saddened  Erica,  yet 
she  speedily  forgot  it  in  talking  to  the  children.  The  arrival 
at  Ashborough,  too,  was  exciting,  and  she  was  so  delighted  to 
see  her  father  once  moi-e  in  the  enjoyment  of  full  health  and 
strength  that  she  could  not  long  be  disquieted  about  anything 
else.  It  was  a  great  happiness  to  her  to  hear  him  speak  u]  on 
any  subject  on  which  they  were  agreed,  and  his  reception  that 
evening  at  the  Ashborough  Town  Hall  was  certainly  a  most 
niagniticcnt  one.  The  ringing  cheers  made  the  tears  start  to 
her  eyes.  The  people  had  been  roused  by  his  late  illness,  and 
though  many  of  tliem  disliked  his  tlicological  views,  they  felt 
that  "in  political  matters  he  was  a  man  whom  they  could  very 
ill  spare.  His  speech  was  a  remarkably  powerful  one,  and 
calcuhxted  to  do  great  good.  Erica's  spirits  rose  to  their  very 
highest  pitch,  and  as  fhey  went  back  togctlicr  to  their  hotel, 
slie  kept  both  llacburn  and  Donovan  in  fits  of  laughter.  It  was 
long  months  since  her  father  had  seen  her  so  brilliant  and  witty. 

"  You  are  "  fey,"  little  one,'  he  said.  '  I  prophecy  a  headache 
for  you  to-morrow.' 

And  the  prophecy  can^e  true,    for  Erica  awoke  the  ne.xt 


380  ASHBOROUGH. 

morning  with  a  sense  of  miserable  oppression.  The  day,  too, 
was  grey  and  dreary-looking,  it  seemed  like  a  different  world 
altogether.  Raebnrn  was  none  the  worse  for  his  exertions  ;  he 
took  a  quiet  day,  however,  went  for  a  walk  with  Donovan  in 
the  afternoon,  and  set  off  in  good  time  for  his  evening  lecture. 
It  was  Sunday  evening,  Erica  was  going  to  church  with  Donovan, 
and  had  her  walking  things  on,  when  her  father  looked  into  the 
room  to  say  good-bye. 

'  What,  going  out  V  he  said.  '  You  don't  look  fit  for  it, 
Eric.' 

'Oh!'  she  said,  'it  is  no  use  to  give  way  to  this  sort  of 
headache ;  it's  only  one's  wretched  nei'ves.' 

'  Well,  take  care  of  yourself,'  he  said,  kissing  her.  'I  believe 
you  are  worn  out  with  all  these  weeks  of  attendance  on  a 
cantankerous  old  father.' 

She  laughed  and  brightened  up,  going  out  with  him  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  returning  to  watch  him  from  the  window. 
Just  as  he  left  the  door  of  the  hotel,  a  small  child  fell  face 
downwards  on  the  pavement  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  road, 
and  began  to  cry  bitterly.  Ilaeburn  crossed  over  and  picked 
tip  the  small  elf;  they  could  hear  him  saying,  'There,  there, 
more  frightened  than  hurt,  I  think,'  as  he  brushed  the  dust 
from  the  little  thing's  clothes. 

'  How  exactly  like  father!'  said  Erica,  smiling;  'he  never 
would  let  us  think  ourselves  hurt.  I  believe  it  is  thanks  to 
him  that  Tom  has  grown  up  such  a  Stoic,  and  that  I'm  not  a 
very  lachrymose  sort  of  being.' 

A  little  later  they  started  for  church  ;  but  towards  the  end 
of  the  Psalms  Donovan  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm.  He  turned  to 
Erica ;  she  was  as  white  as  death,  and  with  a  strange,  glassy 
look  in  her  eyes. 

'  Come,'  she  said,  in  a  hoai'se  whisper,  '  come  out  with  me.' 

He  thought  she  felt  faint,  but  she  walked  steadily  down  the 
aisle.  When  they  were  outside,  she  grasped  his  arm  and 
seemed  to  make  a  great  effort  to  speak  naturally. 

'  Forgive  me  for  disturbing  you,'  she  said  ;  '  but  I  have  such 
a  dreadful  feeling  that  something  is  going  to  happen.  I  feel 
that  I  must  go  to  my  father.' 

Donovan  thought  that  she  was  probably  labouring  vmder  a 
delusion.  He  knew  that  she  was  always  very  anxious  about 
her  father,  and  that  Ashborough,  owing  to  various  memories, 
was  exactly  the  place  where  this  anxiety  would  be  likely  to 
weigh  upon  her.  He  thought,  too,  that  Raebum  was  very 
likely  right,  and  that  she  was  rather  overdone  by  the  strain  of 


ASHBOROUGH.  381 

those  long  weeks  of  solitary  attendance.  Bat  he  was  much 
too  wise  to  attempt  to  reason  away  her  fears  ;  he  knew  that 
nothing  but  her  father's  presence  would  set  her  at  rest,  and 
they  walked  as  fast  as  they  could  to  the  Town  Hall.  He  was 
just  turning  down  a  street  which  led  into  the  High  Street, 
when  Erica  drew  him  instead  in  the  direction  of  a  narrow  by- 
way. 

'  Down  here,'  she  said,  walking  straight  on,  as  though  she 
held  some  guiding  clue  in  her  hand. 

He  was  astonished,  as  she  could  not  possibly  have  been  in 
this  part  of  the  town  before.  Moreover,  her  whole  bearing  was 
very  strange  ;  she  was  still  pale  and  trembling,  and  her  un- 
gloved hands  felt  as  cold  as  ice,  while,  although  he  had  given 
her  his  arm,  he  felt  all  the  time  that  she  was  leading  him. 

At  length  a  sound  of  many  voices  was  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance. Donovan  felt  a  sort  of  thrill  pass  through  the  hand 
that  rested  on  his  arm,  and  Erica  began  to  walk  more  qiiickly 
than  ever.  A  minute  more,  and  the  little  by-way  led  them  out 
into  the  market-place.  It  was  lighted  with  the  electric  light, 
and  to-night  the  light  was  concentrated  at  one  end,  the  end  at 
which  stood  the  Tow^n  Hall.  Instinctively  Donovan's  eyes 
were  turned  at  once  towards  that  brightest  point,  and  also  to- 
wards the  sound,  the  subdued  roar  of  the  multitude  which 
they  had  heard  on  their  way.  There  was  another  sound,  too — - 
a  man's  ringing  voice,  a  stentoi'ian  voice  which  reached  them 
clearly  even  at  that  distance.  Raeburn  stood  alone,  facing  an 
angry,  tumultuous  throng,  with  his  back  to  the  closed  door  of 
the  building,  and  his  tawny  eyes  scanning  the  mass  of  hostile 
faces  below. 

*  Every  Englishman  has  a  right  to  freedom  of  speech.  You 
shall  not  rob  me  or  any  other  man  of  a  right.  I  have  fought 
for  this  all  my  life,  and  I  will  fight  as  long  as  I've  breath.' 

'That  shall  not  be  long!'  shouted  another  speaker. 
*  Forward,  brothers  !  Down  with  the  infidel !  Vengeance  ! 
vengeance  1' 

The  haggard,  wild-looking  man  who  had  addressed  Kaeburn 
the  day  before  at  Grej'shot  now  sprang  forward ;  there  was  a 
surging  movement  in  the  crowd  like  \\ind  in  a  cornfield. 
Donovan  and  Erica,  hurrying  forward,  saw  Raeburn  sur- 
rounded on  every  side,  forced  av/ay  from  the  door,  and  at 
length  half-stunned  by  a  heavy  blow  from  the  fanatical  leader ; 
then,  taken  thus  at  a  disadvantage,  he  was  pushed  backwards. 
They  saw  him  fall  heavily  down  the  stone  steps. 

With  a  low  ci'y,  Erica  rushed  towards  him,  breaking  away 


3S2  ASflBOROUGH, 

from  Donovan,  and  forcing  a  way  tlirongh  that  rough  crowd  aa 
if  by  magic.  Donovan,  though  so  much  taller  and  strongar, 
was  longer  in  reaching  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and  when  at 
length  he  had  pushed  his  way  through  the  thickest  part  of  the 
tliroiig,  he  yviis  hindered ;  for  the  haggard-looking  man  who 
had  been  the  ringleader  ia  the  assault  ran  into  his  very  arms. 
He  was  evidently  struck  with  horror  at  the  result  of  his  mad 
enterprise,  and  now  meditated  flight.  But  Donovan  stopped 
him. 

'  You  must  come  with  me,  my  friend,'  he  exclaimed,  seizing 
the  fanatic  by  the  collar. 

Nor  did  he  pause  till  he  had  handed  him  over  to  a  police- 
man. Then  once  more  he  forced  a  passage  through  the 
liushed  crowd,  and  at  last  reached  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He 
found  Erica  on  the  ground,  with  her  father's  head  raised  on  her 
knee.  He  was  perfectly  unconscious,  but  it  seemed  as  if  his 
spirit  and  energy  had  been  transmitted  to  his  child.  Erica  was 
giving  orders  so  clearly  and  authoritatively  that  Donovan  could 
only  marvel  at  her  strength  and  composure. 

'Stand  back!'  she  was  saying,  as  he  approached.  'How 
can  he  come-to  while  you  are  shutting  out  the  air  ]  Some  one 
go  quickh^,  and  fetch  a  door  or  a  litter.     You  go,  and  you.' 

She  indicated  two  of  the  more  respectable-looking  men,  and 
they  at  once  obeyed  her.  She  looked  relieved  to  see  Donovan. 
'  ^Von't  you  go  inside,  and  speak  to  the  people]'  she  said. 
'  I  have  sent  for  a  doctor.  If  some  one  doesn't  go  soon,  they 
Avill  come  out,  and  then  there  might  be  a  riot.  Tell  them,  if 
they  have  any  feeling  for  my  father,  to  separate  quietly.  Don't 
let  them  all  out  upon  these  people ;  there  is  sure  to  be  fighting 
if  they  meet. 

Donovan  could  not  bear  to  leave  her  in  such  a  position,  but 
just  then  a  doctor  came  up,  and  the  police  began  to  drive  back 
the  crowd  ;  and,  since  the  people  were  rather  awed  by  what 
had  happened,  they  dispersed  meekly  enough.  Donovan  went 
into  the  Town  Hall  then,  and  gradually  learnt  what  had  taken 
place.  It  seemed  that,  soon  after  the  beginning  of  Raeburu's 
lecture,  a  large  crowd  had  gathered  outside,  headed  by  a  mai 
named  Drosser,  a  street  preacher,  well  known  in  Ashbrtrough 
and  the  neighbourhood.  This  crowd  had  stormed  the  doors  of 
the  liall,  and  had  created  such  an  uproar  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  proceed  with  the  lecture.  The  doors  had  been  quite 
\uiequal  to  the  immense  pressure  from  without,  and  Raeburn, 
foreseeing  that  they  would  give  way,  and  knowing  that,  if  the 
insurgents  met  his  audience,  there  would  be  serious  risk  to  the 


ASHBOROUGH.  383 

lives  of  many,  had  insisted  on  trying  to  dismiss  the  crowd 
without,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  secure  some  sort  of  order.  Several 
had  offered  to  go  with  him,  but  he  had  begged  the  audience 
to  keep  still,  and  had  gone  out  alone — the  crowd  being  so 
astonished  by  this  unexpected  move  that  they  fell  back  for  a 
moment  before  him.  Apparently  his  plan  would  have  suc- 
ceeded very  well  had  it  not  been  for  Drosser's  deliberate 
assault.  He  had  gained  a  hearing  from  the  people,  and  would 
probably  have  dispersed  them  had  he  not  been  borne  down  by 
bnite  force. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  tell  the  audience  what  had  hap- 
pened ;  but  Donovan  was  popular  and  greatly  respected,  and, 
thanks  to  his  tact,  their  wrath,  though  very  great,  was  re- 
strained. In  foct,  Raeburn  was  so  well  known  to  disapprove  of 
any  sort  of  violence  that  Donovan's  appeal  to  them  to  preserve 
order  for  his  sake  met  with  a  deep,  suppressed  murmur  of 
assent.  When  all  was  safe,  he  hurried  back  to  the  hotel,  where 
they  were  glad  enough  of  his  services.  Raeburn  had  re- 
covered his  senses  for  a  minute,  but  only  to  sink  almost  im- 
mediately into  another  swoon.  For  many  hours  this  went  on  : 
he  would  partly  revive,  even  speak  a  few  words,  and  then  sink 
back  once  more.  Every  time  Erica  thought  it  would  end  in 
death,  nor  could  she  gather  comfort  from  the  looks  of  either  of 
the  doctors  or  of  Donovan. 

'  This  is  not  the  first  time  I've  been  knocked  down  and 
trampled  on,'  said  Raeburn,  faintly,  in  one  of  his  intervals  of 
consciousness,  '  but  it  will  be  the  last  time.' 

And  though  the  words  were  spoken  with  a  touch  of  his 
native  humour,  and  might  have  borne  more  than  one  intei*- 
prctation,  yet  they  answered  painfully  to  the  conviction  which 
lay  deep  down  in  Erica's  heart. 

'  Then  let  me  send  a  telegram  from  the  Asliborough  Times 
oflice,'  said  Donovan  to  her,  in  one  of  the  momentary  pauses. 
'  I  have  sent  for  your  cousin  and  Mrs.  Craigie,  and  for  Brian.' 

For  the  first  time  Erica's  outward  composure  gave  way. 
Her  mouth  began  to  quiver  and  her  eyes  to  fill. 

'  Oh  !  thank  you,'  she  said  ;  and  there  was  something  in  heJ 
voice  that  went  to  Donovan's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


MOES  JANUA  VITiE. 


Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  Thee,  the  ineffable  Name? 

Builder  and  maker  Thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands! 
"What,  have  fear  of  change  from  Thee  who  art  ever  the  same? 

Doubt  that  Thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  Thy  power  expands? 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we  withered  or  agonised? 

"Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized? 

E.  Browning. 

Early  on  the  Monday  morning,  three  anxious-looking  travellers 
arrived  by  the  first  train  from  London,  and  drove  as  fast  as 
might  be  to  the  Park  Hotel  at  Ashborovigh.  They  were  evi- 
dently expected,  for  the  moment  their  cab  stopped,  a  door  on 
one  of  the  upper  floors  was  opened,  and  some  one  ran  quickly 
down  the  stairs  to  meet  them. 

'  Is  he  better  1 '  asked  Aunt  Jean. 

Erica  shook  her  head,  and,  indeed,  her^iace  told  them  much 
more  than  the  brief  words  of  the  telegram.  She  was  deathly 
white,  and  had  that  weighed-down  look  which  people  wear 
when  they  have  watched  all  night  beside  one  who  is  hovering 
between  life  and  death.  She  seemed  to  recover  herself  a  little 
as  her  hand  rested  for  a  moment  in  Brian's. 

'  He  has  been  asking  for  you,'  she  said.  '  Do  go  to  him. 
The  faintness  has  quite  passed  off,  and  they  say  inflammation 
has  set  in  ;  he  is  in  frightful  pain.' 

Her  lips  grew  a  shade  whiter  as  she  spoke,  and,  with  an 
effort,  she  seemed  to  turn  away  from  some  horrible  recollec- 
tion. 

'  There  is  some  breakfast  ready  for  you  in  here,'  she  said  to 
her  aunt.  'You  must  have  something  before  you  see  him. 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  auntie  ! ' 

Aunt  Jean  kissed  her,  and  cried  a  little ;  trouble  always 
brought  these  two  together,  however  much  they  disagreed  at 
otlicr  times.  Tom  did  not  say  a  word,  but  began  to  cut  a  loaf 
lo  pieces,  as  though  they  had  the  very  largest  appetites  ;  the 
great  jjile  of  slices  lay  untouched  on  the  trencher,  but  the 
cutting  had  served  its  purpose  of  a  relief  to  his  pent-up 
feelinga. 


MORS  JANUA  VITiE.  385 

Later  on  there  was  a  consultation  of  doctors  ;  tbcir  verdict 
was,  perhaps,  a  little  more  hopeful  than  Erica  had  dared  to 
expect.  Her  father  had  recei^'ed  a  fearful  internal  injury,  and 
was  in  the  greatest  danger,  but  there  was  still  a  chance  that  he 
might  recover,  it  was  just  possible  ;  and  knowing  how  his  con- 
stitution had  rallied  when  every  one  had  thought  him  dying 
three  years  before,  i<he  grew  very  hopeful.  Without  hope  she 
could  hardly  have  got  through  those  days,  for  the  svifFering  was 
terrible.  She  hardly  knew  which  she  dreaded  most,  the  nights 
of  fever  and  delirium,  when  groans  of  anguish  came  from  the 
writhing  lips,  or  the  days  with  their  clear  consciousness,  when 
her  father  never  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  but  just  silently 
endured  the  torture,  replying  always,  if  questioned  as  to  the 
pain,  '  It's  bearable.' 

His  great  strength  and  vigour  made  it  seem  all  the  more 
piteous  that  he  should  now  be  lying  in  the  very  extremity  of 
suflfering,  unable  to  bear  even  the  weight  of  the  bed-clothes. 
But  all  through  that  weary  time  his  fortitude  never  gave  way, 
and  the  vein  of  humour  which  had  stood  him  in  such  good 
istead  all  his  life  did  not  fail  him  even  now.  On  the  Monday, 
when  he  was  suffering  torments,  they  tried  the  application  of 
leeches.  One  leech  escaped,  and  they  had  a  great  hunt  for  it, 
Raeburn  astonishing  them  all  by  coming  out  with  one  of  his 
quaint  flashes  of  wit,  and  positively  making  them  laugh  in  spite 
of  their  anxiety  and  sorrow. 

The  weary  days  dragged  on,  the  torture  grew  worse,  opium 
failed  to  deaden  the  pain,  and  sleep,  except  in  the  very  briefest 
snatches,  was  impossible.  But  at  last,  on  the  Thursday 
morning,  a  change  set  in,  the  suffering  became  less  intense ; 
they  knew,  however,  that  it  was  only  because  the  end  was 
drawing  near,  and  the  life  energy  failing. 

For  the  second  time,  Sir  John  Larkom  came  down  from 
London  to  see  the  patient,  but  every  one  knew  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  Even  Erica  began  to  understand  that  the 
time  left  was  to  be  measured  only  by  hours.  She  learnt  it  in 
a  few  words  which  Sir  John  Larkom  said  to  Donovan  on  the 
stairs.  She  was  in  her  own  room  with  the  door  partly  open, 
eagerly  waiting  for  permission  to  go  back  to  her  father. 

'  Oh,  it's  all  up  with  the  poor  fellow,'  she  heard  the  London 
doctor  say.  '  A  wonderful  constitution ;  most  men  would  not 
have  held  out  so  long.' 

At  the  time  the  words  did  not  convey  any  very  clear 
meaning  to  Erica  ;  she  felt  no  A'ery  sharp  pang  as  she  repeated 
the  sentence  to  herself;  there  was  only  a  curious  numb  feeling 


386  MORS  JANUA  VITiE. 

at  her  heart,  and  a  sort  of  dull  consciousness  that  she  must 
move,  must  get  away  somewhere,  do  something  active.  It  was 
at  first  almost  a  relief  to  her  when  Donovan  returned  and 
knocked  at  her  door. 

'  I  am  afraid  we  ought  to  come  to  the  court,'  he  said 
*  They  will,  I  am  sure,  take  your  evidence  as  quickly  as 
possible.' 

She  remembered  then  that  the  man  Drosser  was  to  be 
brought  up  before  the  magistrates  that  morning ;  she  and 
Donovan  had  to  appear  as  witnesses  of  the  assault.  She  went 
into  her  father's  room  before  she  started ;  he  had  specially 
asked  to  see  her.  He  was  quite  clear-minded  and  calm,  and 
began  to  speak  in  a  voice  which,  though  weak  and  low,  had  the 
old  musical  ring  about  it.' 

'  You  are  going  to  give  evidence,  Eric,'  he  said,  holding  her 
hand  in  his.  '  Now,  I  don't  forgive  that  fellow  for  having 
robbed  me  of  life,  but  one  must  be  just  even  to  one's  foes. 
They  will  ask  you  if  you  ever  saw  Drosser  before ;  you  will 
have  to  tell  them  of  that  scene  at  Greyshot,  and  you  must  be 
sure  to  say  that  I  said,  as  we  drove  ofl",  "  No  doubt  the 
poor  fellow  is  half-witted."  Those  were  my  words,  do  you 
remember?' 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  repeating  the  words  after  him  at  his  request, 
'  I  remember  quite  well.' 

'  Those  words  may  affect  Drosser's  case  very  much,  and  I 
don't  wish  any  man  to  swing  for  me — I  have  always  dis- 
approved of  the  death-penalty.  Probabl}^,  though,  it  will  be 
brought  in  as  manslaughter — yes,  almost  certainly.  There — go, 
my  child,  and  come  back  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can.' 

But  the  examination  proved  too  much  for  Erica's  physical 
powers  ;  she  was  greatly  exhausted  by  the  terrible  strain  of 
the  long  days  and  nights  of  nursing,  and  when  she  foxuid  herself 
in  a  hot  and  crowded  coui-t,  pitilessly  stared  at,  confronted  by 
the  man  who  was  in  fact  her  father's  murderer,  and  closely 
questioned  by  the  magistrate  about  all  the  details  of  that 
Sunday  evening,  her  over-tasked  strength  gave  way  suddenly. 

She  had  told  clearly  and  distinctly  about  the  meeting 
at  Greyshot,  and  had  stated  positively  that  in  tlie  Ashborough 
market-place  she  had  seen  Drosser  give  her  father  a  heavy 
blow,  and  then  push  him  down  the  Town  Hall  steps. 

'  Can  you  recollect  whether  others  pushed  your  father  at  the 
same  time  f  asked  the  magistrate.  'Don't  answer  hurriedly; 
this  is  an  important  matter.' 

All  at  once  the  whole  scene  came  vividiv  before  Erica — the 


MORS  JANUA  VIT^  387 

huge  crowd,  the  glare  of  the  lights,  her  father  standing  straight 
and  tall,  as  she  should  never  see  him  again,  his  thick  white 
hair  stirred  by  the  wind,  his  whole  attitude  that  of  indignant 
protest;  then  the  haggard  face  of  the  ffinatic,  the  surging 
movement  in  the  black  mass  of  people,  and  that  awful  struggle 
and  fall.  Was  it  he  who  was  falling]  If  so,  she  was  surely 
with  him,  falling  down,  down,  endlessly  down. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  and  commotion  in  the  court,  a 
murmur  of  pity,  for  Luke  Raeburn's  daughter  had  fallen  back 
senseless. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  she  was  lying  on  the  floor  of  an 
office-like  room,  with  her  head  on  Mrs.  MacNaughton's  lap. 
Brian  was  bending  over  her,  chafing  her  hands.  A  clock  in  the 
building  sti-uck  one,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  recall  things  to 
her  mind.     She  started  up. 

'Oh!'  she  cried,  "why  am  I  not  with  my  father?  Where 
have  you  taken  me  to  V 

'  It's  all  right,  dear,'  said  Mrs.  MacNaughton,  soothingly  : 
'  you  shall  come  back  directly  you  are  well  enough.' 

'  I  remember  it  all  now,'  she  said,  '  did  I  finish  1  Must  I 
go  back  there?' 

It  was  some  relief  to  know  that  Donovan  had  been  able  to 
supplement  her  evidence,  and  that  the  examination  was  in  fact 
over,  Drosser  having  been  remanded  for  a  week.  She  insisted 
on  going  back  to  the  hotel  at  once,  and  spent  the  whole  of  the 
afternoon  and  evening  with  her  father.  He  was  not  in  great 
pain  now,  but  very  restless,  and  growing  weaker  every  hour. 
He  was  able,  however,  to  see  several  of  his  friends,  and  though 
the  farewells  evidently  tried  him,  he  would  not  refuse  to  see 
those  who  had  come  hundreds  of  miles  for  that  last  glimpse. 

'What  does  it  matter  if  I  am  exhausted?'  he  said,  when 
some  one  remonstrated  with  him.  '  It  will  make  no  difference 
at  all  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  it  will  be  a  happiness  to 
them  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  Besides,  I  shall  not  die  to- 
day, perhaps  not  to-morrow;  depend  upon  it  I  shall  die  hard.' 

They  persuaded  Erica  to  rest  for  the  first  part  of  the  night. 
She  left  Tom  and  Brian  to  watch,  and  went  to  her  room, 
making  them  promise  to  call  her  if  there  were  any  signs  of 
change. 

At  last  the  full  realisation  had  come  to  her ;  though  she 
hated  leaving  her  father,  it  was  yet  a  sort  of  relief  to  get  away 
into  the  dark,  to  be  able  to  give  way  for  a  moment. 

'  Anything  but  this,  oh,  God,'  she  sobbed,  '  anything  but 
this!' 


388  MORS  JANUA  VlTJu. 

All  elsG  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  bear,  but  that  he 
should  be  killed  by  the  violence  and  bigotry  of  one  who  at  any 
rate  called  himself  a  Chriatian,  this  seemed  to  her  not  tolerable. 
The  hope  of  years  had  received  its  deathblow,  the  life  she  most 
loved  was  sinking  away  in  darkness,  the  work  which  she  had 
so  bravely  taken  as  her  life-work  was  all  but  over,  and  she  had 
failed.  Yes,  in  spite  of  all  her  efibrts,  all  her  lon.gings,  all  her 
love,  she  had  failed,  or  at  any  rate  apparently  failed,  and  in 
moments  of  great  agony  we  do  not — in  fact  cannot — distinguish 
between  the  real  and  the  apparent.   Christ  Himself  covdd  not  do  it. 

She  did  not  dare  to  let  her  sobs  rise,  for  it  was  one  of  the 
trials  of  that  time  that  they  were  not  in  their  own  home,  but 
in  a  busy  hotel  where  the  partitions  were  thin  and  every  sound 
could  be  beard  in  the  adjoining  rooms.  ]\Ioreover,  Aunt  Jean 
was  sleeping  with  her,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  But  as  she 
lay  on  the  floor  trying  to  stifle  the  restrained  sobs  Avhich  shook 
her  from  head  to  foot,  trying  to  check  the  bitter  tears  which 
would  come,  her  thoughts  were  somehow  lifted  quite  away 
from  the  present ;  strange  little  memories  of  her  childish  days 
returned  to  her,  days  when  her  father  had  been  to  her  the 
living  incarnation  of  all  that  was  noble  and  good.  Often  it  is 
not  the  great  events  of  a  child's  life  which  are  so  vividly 
remembered ;  memory  seems  to  be  strangely  capricious,  and 
will  single  out  some  special  word  or  deed,  some  trifling  sign  of 
love,  which  has  stamped  itself  indelibly  upon  the  brain  to  bear 
its  golden  harvest  of  responding  love  through  a  lifetime. 
Vividly  there  came  back  to  her  now  the  eager  happiness  with 
which,  she  had  awaited  a  long-promised  treat,  as  a  little  thing  of 
seven  years  old.  Her  father  was  to  take  her  on  some  special 
excursion,  she  had  long  ago  forgotten  what  the  particular 
occasion  Avas,  only  it  was  something  that  could  come  but  once, 
the  day  lost,  the  treat  would  be  lost.  But  the  evening  before, 
when  she  was  on  the  very  tip-toe  of  expectation,  a  celebrated 
action  for  libel  had  come  to  an  end  much  sooner  than  was 
expected,  and  when  her  father  returned  in  the  evening  he  had 
to  tell  her  that  his  case  was  to  come  on  the  next  day,  and  that 
he  could  not  possibly  take  her.  Even  now  she  could  recall  the 
bitterness  of  the  disappointment,  but  not  so  vividly  as  the  look 
in  her  father's  face  as  he  lifted  her  off  the  floor  where  she  had 
thrown  herself  in  the  abandonment  of  her  grief  He  had  not 
said  a  word  then  about  the  enormity  of  crying,  he  had  just  held 
her  closely  in  his  arms,  feeling  the  disappointment  a  thousand 
times  more  than  she  felt  it  herself,  and  fully  realising  that  the 
loss  of  such  a  long-looked-for  happiness  was  to  a  child  what 


MORS  JANUA  VIT^.  389 

the  loss  of  tliousands  of  pounds  would  be  to  a  man.  He  had 
been  patient  with  her,  though  she  had  entirely  failed  to  see 
why  he  could  not  put  off  the  case  just  for  that  day  ! 

'  You'll  understand  one  day,  little  one,'  he  had  said,  '  and 
be  glad  that  you  have  had  your  share  of  pain  in  a  day  that  will 
advance  the  cause  of  liberty.' 

She  remembered  protesting  that  that  was  impossible,  that 
she  shoiild  always  be  miserable  !  at  which  he  had  only  smiled. 

Then  it  came  to  Erica  that  the  life  upon  earth  was,  after 
all,  as  compared  with  the  eternal  life,  what  the  day  is  in  the 
life  of  a  child.  It  seemed  everything  at  the  time,  but  was  in 
truth  such  a  fragment.  And  as  she  lay  there — in  the  im- 
measurably greater  agony  of  later  life,  once  more  sobbing,  '  I 
had  hoped,  I  had  planned,  this  is  more  than  I  can  bear!'— a 
Comforter  infinitely  greater,  a  Father  whose  love  was  infinitely 
stronger,  drew  her  so  near  that  the  word  'near'  was  but  a 
mockery,  and  told  her,  as  the  earthly  father  had  told  her  with 
such  perfect  truth,  '  One  day  you  will  understand,  child ;  one 
day  you  will  be  glad  to  have  shared  the  pain  !' 

In  the  next  room  there  was  for  some  time  quiet.  Poor 
Tom,  heavy  with  grief  and  weariness,  fell  asleep  beside  the 
fire  ;  Raebum  was  for  the  most  part  very  still,  as  if  wrapped  in 
thought.  At  length  a  heavy  sigh  made  Brian  ask  if  he  were 
in  pain, 

'  Pain  of  mind,'  he  said,  '  not  of  body.  Don't  misunderstand 
me,'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  with  the  natural  fear  lest  Brian 
should  fancy  his  Secularism  failed  him  at  the  near  approach  of 
death,  '  For  myself  I  am  content ;  I  have  had  a  very  full  life, 
and  I  have  tried  always — yes,  I  think  I  may  say  always — to 
work  entirely  for  the  good  of  Humanity,  But  I  am  wretched 
about  Erica,  I  do  not  see  how  the  home  can  be  a  very  happy 
one  for  her  when  I  am  gone,^ 

For  a  minute  Brian  hesitated  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him,  when 
he  thouglit  out  the  matter,  that  a  father  so  loving  as  Raeburn 
would  feel  no  jealousy  at  the  thouglit  that  the  love  he  had 
deemed  exclusively  his  own  might,  after  all,  have  been  given 
to  another. 

'  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  right  to  tell  you,'  he  said 
'  Would  it  make  you  happier  to  know  that  I  love  Erica — that  I 
have  loved  her  for  nearly  nine  years?' 

Eaeburn  gave  an  ejaculation  of  astonishment.  There  was 
a  long  silence ;  for,  the  idea  once  suggested  to  him,  he  began  to 
see  what  a  likely  thing  it  was,  and  to  wonder  that  he  had  not 
thoujiht  of  it  before. 


390  MORS  JANUA  VIT^. 

*  I  think  you  are  well  suited  to  each  other,'  he  said  at  latit. 
'  Now  I  understand  your  visit  to  Florence,  What  took  you 
away  again  so  suddenly  1 ' 

Brian  told  him  all  about  the  day  at  Fiesole.  He  seemed 
greatly  touched;  all  the  little  proofs  and  coincidences  which 
had  never  struck  him  at  the  time  were  so  plain  now.  They 
were  still  discussing  it  when,  at  about  five  o'clock,  Erica 
returned.  She  was  pale  and  sad,  but  the  worn,  harassed, 
miserable  look  had  quite  gone.  It  was  a  strange  time  and  place 
for  a  betrothal. 

'  Brian  has  been  telling  me  about  the  day  at  Fiesole,'  said 
Raeburn,  letting  his  weak,  nerveless  hands  play  about  in  her 
hair,  as  she  knelt  beside  the  bed.  'You  have  been  a  leal  bairn 
to  me,  Eric ;  I  don't  think  I  could  have  spared  you  then,  even 
though  Brian  so  well  deserved  you.  But  now  it  makes  me  veiy 
Lappy  to  leave  you  to  him;  it  takes  away  my  only  care.' 

Erica  had  coloured  faintly,  but  there  was  an  absence  of 
responsiveness  in  her  manner  which  troubled  Pvaeburn. 

'  You  do  still  feel  as  you  did  at  Fiesole  1 '  he  asked.  '  You 
ire  sure  of  your  own  mind  ]   You  think  jou  will  be  happy  1 ' 

'  I  love  Brian,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  '  But,  oh,  I  can't 
think  now  about  being  happy  ! '  She  broke  off  suddenly  and 
hid  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  In  a  minute  she  raised 
herself,  and  turned  to  Brian,  who  stood  beside  her. 

'  You  will  understand,'  she  said,  looking  right  into  his  eyes. 
*  There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  can  feel  just  now.  You  do 
understand,  I  know.' 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck 
and  kissed  him. 

And  Brian  did  understand.  He  knew,  too,  that  she  wanted 
to  have  her  father  to  herself.  Even  in  the  very  fulfilment  of 
his  desire,  he  was  obliged  to  stand  aside,  obliged  even  yet  to 
be  patient.  Never  surely  had  an  impulsive,  impetuous  man  a 
longer  training  ! 

When  he  had  gone,  Eaeburn  talked  for  some  time  of  Erica's 
future,  talked  for  so  long,  indeed,  that  she  grew  impatient.  How 
trifling  now  seemed  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  at  Fiesole  to 
which  he  kept  on  referring  ! 

'Oh,  why  do  you  waste  the  time  in  talking  of  mel'  she 
said  at  last. 

'Why?'  he  said,  smiling.  '  Because  you  are  my  bairn — of 
what  else  should  I  speak  or  think  ?  For  myself,  I  am  very 
conlent,  dear,  though  I  should  have  liked  a  few  more  years  of 


MORS  JAXUA  VIT^.  391 

work.  It  was  not  to  be,  you  see  ;  and,  in  the  cud,  no  doubt 
this  will  work  good  to  the  cause  of '  he  broke  off,  un- 
willing to  pain  her. 

'Ah,  child  !'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  '  how  miserable  you  and 
I  might  have  been  for  these  two  years  if  we  had  not  loved  each 
other  !  You  are  not  to  think,  little  one,  that  I  have  not  known 
what  your  wishes  have  been  for  me.  You,  and  Brian,  and 
Osmond,  and  of  late  that  noble  fellow  Farrant,  have  often  made 
me  see  that  Christianity  need  not  necessarily  Avarp  the  intellect 
and  cripple  the  life.  I  believe  that  for  you,  and  such  as  you, 
the  system  is  not  rooted  in  selfishness.  But,  dear,  you  are  but 
the  exceptions,  the  rare  exceptions  !  I  know  that  you  have 
wished  with  all  your  heart  that  I  should  come  to  think  as  you 
do,  while  I  have  been  wishing  you  back  into  the  ranks  of 
Secularism.  "Well !  it  wasn't  to  be.  We  each  of  us  lost  our 
wish.  But  there  is  this  left,  that  we  each  know^  the  other  to 
be  honest ;  each  deem  it  a  case  of  honest  mistake,  I've  felt 
that  all  along.  "We've  a  common  love  of  truth,  and  a  common 
love  of  humanity  !  Oh,  my  child  !  spite  of  all  the  creeds,  we 
are  very  near  to  each  other  ! ' 

'  "V"ery  near,'  she  whispered.  And  words  which  Charles 
Osmond  had  spoken  years  ago  retm-ned  to  her  memory.  '  I 
think  death  will  be  your  gate  of  life  !  You  will  wake  up,  and 
exclaim,  "Who'd  have  thought  itT" 

After  all,  death  would,  in  a  sense,  make  them  yet  nearer  ! 
But  human  nature  is  weak,  and  it  is  hard  for  us  to  realise  the 
Unseen  !  She  could  not  then  feel  that  it  was  anything  but 
hard,  bitter,  heart-breaking,  that  he  should  be  leaving  her  in 
this  vi-nj. 

The  pain  had  now  almost  entirely  ceased,  and  Raeburn, 
though  very  restless,  was  better  able  to  talk  than  on  the  pre- 
vious day.  He  asked  for  the  first  time  Avhat  was  passing  in 
the  world,  showed  special  interest  in  the  accounts  of  the  late 
colliery  accident,  and  was  greatly  touched  by  the  gallant  eflForts 
of  the  rescuers,  who  had  to  some  extent  been  successful.  Hn 
insisted,  too,  on  hearing  what  the  various  papers  had  to  say 
about  his  own  case,  listening  sometimes  with  a  quiet  smile, 
sometimes  with  a  gleam  of  anger  in  his  eyes.  After  a  very 
abusive  article,  which  he  had  specially  desired  to  hear,  he  leant 
back  with  an  air  of  weariness. 

'  I'm  rather  tired  of  this  sort  of  thing !'  he  said,  with  a 
sigh.  '  What  will  the  Herald  do  when  it  no  longer  has  me 
to  abuse  V 

Of  Drosser  and  of  the  events  of  that  Sunday  evening  he 


392  Mons  JAXUA  vitje. 

spoke  strangely  little,  "What  he  did  say  was,  for  the  most  part, 
said  to  Professor  Gosse. 

'You  say  I  was  rash  to  go  alone,'  he  replied,  when  the 
professor  had  opened  the  subject.  *  Well,  that  may  be.  It  is 
not,  perhaps,  the  first  time  that  in  personal  matters  I've  been 
lacking  in  due  caution.  But  I  thought  it  would  prevent  a 
riot.     I  still  think  it  did  so.' 

'And  what  is  your  feeling  about  the  whole  matter  V  asked 
the  professor.  '  Do  you  forgive  Drosser  for  having  given  you 
this  mortal  injury  V 

'  One  must  bow  to  necessity,'  said  Raeburn,  quietly.  'When 
you  speak  of  forgiving,  I  don't  quite  understand  you ;  but  I 
don't  intend  to  hand  down  a  legacy  of  revenge  to  my  succes- 
sors. The  law  will  duly  punish  the  man,  and  future  atheists 
will  reap  the  benefit  of  my  death.  Tliere  is,  after  all,  you 
know,  a  certain  satisfaction  in  feeling  that  I  died  as  I  have  lived 
in  defending  the  right  of  free  speech.  I  can't  say  that  I  could 
not  have  wished  that  Drosser  had  made  an  end  of  me  at  nine- 
and-seventy  rather  than  at  nine-and-forty.  But  the  people  will 
not  forget  the  manner  of  my  dying.  I  shall  live  on  in  their 
hearts,  and  that  is  a  glorious  immortality  !  the  only  immortality 
I  have  ever  looked  for  !' 

In  the  afternoon,  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  ^Ir.  Fane- 
Smith  came  over  from  Grcj^shot,  horrified  to  hear  that  the  man 
whom  he  had  once  treated  with  scant  justice  and  actual  dis- 
courtesy was  lying  on  his  death-bed,  a  victim  to  religious 
fanaticism.  Spite  of  his  very  hard  words  to  her,  Erica  had 
always  respected  Mr,  Fane-Smith,  and  she  was  glad  that  he 
had  come  at  the  last.  Her  aunt  had  not  come ;  she  had 
hesitated  long,  but  in  the  end  the  recollection  that  Greyshot 
would  be  greatly  scandalised,  and  that,  too,  on  the  very  eve 
of  her  daughter's  wedding,  turned  the  scale.  She  sent  affec- 
tionate messages  and  a  small  devotional  book,  but  stayed  at 
home. 

i\Ir.  Fane-Smith  apologised  frankly  and  fully  to  Raeburn  for 
his  former  discourtesy,  and  then  plunged  at  once  into  eager 
questions  and  eager  arguments.  He  could  not  endure  the 
tiiought  that  the  man  in  whom  at  the  last  he  was  able  to 
recognise  a  certain  nobility  of  character,  should  be  sinking 
down  into  what  he  considered  everlasting  daikness.  Bitterly 
did  he  now  regret  the  indifference  of  former  years,  and  the 
actual  uncharitableness  in  which  he  had  of  late  indulged. 

Ilaeburn  lay  very  passively  listening  to  an  impassioned 
setting  forth  of  the  gospel,  his  hands  wandering  about  restlessly, 


MORS  JANUA  VIT/E.  393 

picking  up  little  bits  of  the  coverlet  in  that  strange  way  so 
often  noticed  in  dying  people. 

'  You  are  mistaken,'  he  said,  when  at  length  Mr.  Fane-Smith 
ceased.  '  Had  you  argued  with  me  in  former  years,  you  would 
never  have  convinced  me,  your  books  and  tracts  could  never 
have  altered  my  firm  convictions.  All  my  life  I  have  had 
tracts  and  leaflets  showered  down  upon  me,  with  letters  from 
pious  folks  desiring  my  conversion.  I  have  had  innumerable 
letters,  telling  me  that  the  writers  were  praying  for  me.  Well. 
I  think  they  would  have  done  better  to  pray  for  some  of  my 
orthodox  opponents  who  are  leading  immoral  lives ;  but,  in  so 
far  as  prayers  show  a  certain  amount  of  human  interest,  I  am 
very  willing  that  they  should  pray  for  me,  though  they  would 
have  shown  better  taste  if  they  had  not  informed  me  of  their 
sitpplications.  But  don't  mistake  me  !  it  is  not  in  this  way 
that  you  will  ever  prove  the  truth  of  your  religion.  You  must 
show  justice  to  your  opponents,  first !  You  must  put  a  different 
spirit  into  your  pet  word,  "  Charity."  I  don't  think  you  can 
do  it !  I  think  your  religion  false  !  I  consider  that  it  is  rooted 
in  selfishness  and  supei'stition  !  Being  convinced  of  this  when 
I  was  still  young,  I  had  to  find  some  other  system  to  take  its 
place.  That  system  I  found  in  Secularism.  For  thirty  years 
I  have  lived  as  a  Secularist  and  have  been  perfectly  content, 
notwithstanding  that  my  life  has  been  a  very  hard  one.  As  a 
Secularist  I  now  die  content.' 

Ml-.  Fane-Smith  shuddered.  This  was  of  course  inexpressibly 
painful  to  him.  He  could  not  see  that  Avhat  had  disgusted 
Haeburn  with  religion  had  been  the  distortion  of  Christ's  tcach- 
jng,  and  that  in  truth  the  Secularist  creed  embodied  much  of 
the  truest  and  loftiest  Christianity. 

Once  more  he  reiterated  his  arguments,  striving  hard  to 
show  by  words  the  beauty  of  his  religimi.  But  Christianity 
can  only  be  vindicated  by  deeds,  can  only  be  truly  shown  forth  in 
lives.  The  country,  the  '  Christian  Country,'  as  it  was  fond  of 
styling  itself,  had  had  thirty  years  in  which  to  show  to  Baeburn 
the  loving-kindness,  the  brotherhood,  the  lofty  generosity  which 
each  professed  follower  of  Christ  ought  to  show  in  his  life. 
Now  the  time  was  over,  and  it  was  too  late. 

The  dying  man  bent  forward,  and  a  hard  look  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  a  sternness  overspread  his  calm  face. 

'What  has  Christianity  done  for  mel'  he  asked.  'Look  at 
my  life.     See  how  I  have  been  treated.' 

And  Mr.  Fane-Smith  was  speechless.  Conscience-stricken, 
he  knew  that  to  this  there  was  no  reply  that  he  could  liuuestly 


394  MORS  JANUA  VITiH. 

make  ;  and  a  question  dawned  upon  his  mind — Was  his  own 
'  Christianity  '  really  that  of  Christ  1 

As  evening  drew  on,  Raeburn's  life  was  slowly  ebbing  away. 
Very  slowly,  for  to  the  last  he  fought  for  breath.  All  his 
nearest  friends  were  gathered  round  him,  and  to  the  end  he 
was  clearly  conscious,  and,  as  in  life,  calmly  philosophical. 

'  I  have  been  well  "  friended  "  all  my  life,'  he  said  once, 
looking  round  at  the  faces  by  his  bedside. 

They  were  all  too  broken-hearted  to  respond,  and  there  were 
long  silences,  broken  only  by  the  labouring  breath  and  restless 
movements  of  the  dying  man. 

Towards  midnight  there  w^as  a  low  roll  of  distant  thunder, 
and  gradually  the  storm  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Raeburn 
asked  to  be  raised  in  bed,  that  he  might  watch  the  lightning, 
which  was  unusually  beautiful.  It  was  a  strange,  weird  scene 
— the  plainly  furnished  hotel  room,  sparsely  lighted  by  candles, 
the  sad  group  of  watchers,  the  pale,  beautiful  face  of  the  young 
girl  bending  over  the  pillow,  and  the  strong,  rugged  Scotchman, 
with  his  white  hair  and  keen  brown  eyes,  upon  w^hose  face 
death  had  already  set  his  pale  tokens.  From  the  uncurtained 
window  covild  be  seen  the  dark  outline  of  the  adjacent  houses, 
and  the  lights  lower  down  the  hill  scattered  here  and  there 
throughout  the  sleeping  city.  Upon  all  this  the  vivid  lightning 
played,  and  the  distant  thunder  followed  with  its  mighty  crash, 
rolling  and  echoing  away  among  the  surrounding  hills. 

'  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  one  more  storm,'  said  Raeburn. 

But  soon  he  grew  weary,  tired  just  with  the  slight  exertion 
of  looking  and  listening.  He  sighed.  To  a  strong,  healthy 
man  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  this  failing  of  the  powers  was 
hard  to  boar.  Death  was  very  near ;  he  knew  it  well  enough 
— knew  it  by  this  slow,  sure,  painless  sinking. 

He  held  Erica's  hand  more  closely,  and  after  that  lay  very 
still,  once  or  twice  asking  for  more  coverings  over  his  feet. 
The  night  wore  on.  After  a  long  silence,  he  looked  up  once 
more  and  said  to  Tom, 

'  I  promised  Hazeldine  a  sovereign  towards  the  fund  for ' 

He  broke  off  with  a  look  of  intense  weariness,  adding  after  ai 
interval — '  He'll  tell  you.     See  that  it's  paid.' 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  the  golden-red  dawn  was  just 
breaking,  when  once  moi-e  the  silence  was  broken. 

'  Come  nearer,  Eric,'  he  whispered — '  nearer  ! ' 

Then  came  a  long  pause. 

There  was  stillness — that  fearful  stillness,  when  the  watchers 
begin  to  hush  their  very  breath,  tliat  the}''  may  catch  the  last 
faint  breatl  ings  !      Poor   Tom  could  stand  it  no  longer ;   he 


RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOAVING.  395 

just  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  sobbed  Perhaps  Erica 
envied  him.  Violent  grief  would  surely  have  been  more 
endurable  than  this  terrible  sinking,  this  dread  of  not  keeping 
up  to  the  end.  "Was  she  falling  with  him  down  those  horrible 
steps?  was  she  sinking  with  him  beneath  the  cold,  green 
waves  ?  Oh,  death— cruel  death  !  why  had  he  not  taken  them 
together  on  that  summer  day  1 

Yet  what  was  she  saying  1  The  death-angel  was  but  God's 
messenger,  and  her  father  could  never,  never  be  beyond  the 
care  of  One  who  loved  him  infinitely — eternally  ]  If  He  the 
Father  were  taking  him  from  her,  why,  she  would  trust  Him, 
though  it  should  crush  her  whole  world  ! 

'  Nearer,  Eric — nearer  ! '  How  those  last  words  rang  in  her 
ears  as  she  waited  there  with  her  hands  in  his  !  She  knew 
they  would  be  the  last,  for  he  was  sinking  away  into  a  dreamily 
passive  state — just  dying  because  too  tired  to  live. 

'  Nearer,  nearer ! '  Was  this  agony  indeed  to  heal  the 
terrible  division  between  them  ]  Ah  !  mystery  of  evil,  mys- 
tery of  pain,  mystery  of  death  !  only  the  love  of  the  Infinitely 
Loving  can  fathom  you — only  the  trust  in  that  Love  give  us  a 
glimpse  of  your  meaning  ! 

She  felt  a  tightening  of  the  fingers  that  clasped  hers.  He 
was  still  conscious  ;  he  smiled  ; — -just  such  a  smile  as  he  used 
to  give  her  when,  as  a  little  thing,  she  had  fretted  about  his 
leaving  home. 

She  pressed  her  quivering  lips  to  his,  clung  to  him,  and 
kissed  him  again  and  again.  There  was  a  sigh.  A  long  in- 
terval, and  another  sigh.     After  that,  silence. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWING. 

But  that  one  man  should  die  ignorant  who  had  capacity  for  know- 
ledge, this  I  call  a  tragedy. 

Carltle. 

Kot  on  the  clasp  of  consciousness— on  Tb^ee  my  life  depends. 

Not  what  i  think,  but  what  Thou  art,  makes  sure. 

George  MacDonald, 

A  WAVE  of  strangely  varied  feeling  swept  through  the  country 
in  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours.  From  the  Raeburnites 
came  a  burst  of  mingled  wrath  and  grief,  and  a  bitter  outcry 


396  RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWING. 

against  the  religion  which  inevitably,  they  thought,  tended  to 
produce  such  fanatics  as  Drosser.  From  the  poor  and  op- 
pi'es^sed  came  a  murmur  of  blank  despair ;  they  had  looked 
upon  Raeburn  as  the  deliverer  from  so  much  that  now  weighed 
upon  them,  and  were  so  perfectly  conscious  that  he  understood 
their  wants  and  difficulties  m  a  way  which  others  failed  to  do, 
that  his  death  in  the  very  prime  of  manhood  simplj'  stunned 
them.  The  liberal-minded  felt  a  thrill  of  horror  and  indigna- 
tion at  the  thought  that  such  deeds  as  this  could  take  place  in 
the  nineteenth  century ;  realising,  however,  with  a  shudder 
that  the  rash  act  of  the  ignorant  fanatic  was,  in  trath,  no 
worse  than  the  murder  of  hatred,  the  perpetual  calumny  and 
injustice  which  thousands  of  professing  Christians  had  meted 
out  to  Raebiu-n.  In  nothing  had  the  un-Christ-likeness  of  the 
age  been  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  way  in  which  Raeburn 
had  all  his  life  been  treated. 

The  fashionable  world  felt  a  sort  of  uncomfortableness. 
The  news  reached  them  at  their  laziest  time  of  year  ;  they 
came  in  from  shooting-parties  to  read  the  account  in  the 
papers  ;  they  discussed  it  in  ball-rooms  and  at  evening  parties 
at  Brighton  and  Greyshot,  and  the  other  autumnal  resorts. 
'  So  he  was  dead  !  Well,  really  they  were  tired  of  hearing  his 
name  !  It  was  rather  horrible,  certainly,  that  his  daughter 
should  have  seen  it  all,  but  such  infamous  creatures  as  Raei)urn 
had  no  business  to  have  daughters.  No  doubt  she  would  stand 
it  very  well — anything,  you  know,  for  a  little  notoriety.  Such 
people  lived  for  notoriety  !  Of  course  the  papers  had  put  in 
a  lot  of  twaddle  that  he  had  said  on  his  death-bed — "Always 
had  tried  to  w^ork  entirely  for  the  good  of  humanity,"  and  that 
sort  of  nonsense.  This  coftee  ice  is  excellent !  Let  me  get 
you  another;'  after  which  the  subject  would  be  dropped,  and 
the  speakers  would  return  to  the  ball-room  to  improve  upon 
Raeburn's  life,  which  they  presumed  so  severely  to  criticise,  by 
a  trois  temjys  enlivened  by  a  broad  flirtation. 

Here  and  there  a  gleam  of  good  was  effected,  inasmuch  as 
some  of  the  excessively  narrow  began  to  see  what  nari-owuess 
leads  to.  ]\Ir.  Cuthbcrt,  coming  home  from  his  annual  Swiss 
tour,  was  leaning  back  sleepily  in  a  first-class  carriage  at  the 
Folkestone  station,  when  the  voice  of  a  newsboy  recalled  him 
to  the  everyday  world  with  a  slight  shock.  There  was  the 
usual  list  of  papers ;  he  Avas  sleepy  and  thought  he  would  not 
get  one,  but  then  came  the  loud  voice,  not  a  couple  of  yards 
from  Ids  ear,  '  Death  of  Mr.  Raeburn  !  Death  of  Luke  Raeburn 
this  da-ay  V 


r.ESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWING.  397 

Mr.  Cuthbcrt  liad  his  head  out  of  the  Vviiidow  in  a  moment. 

'  Here,  paper  ! ' 

'These  boys  will  call  anything  to  sell  their  papers,'  he 
remarked  to  his  companion  ;  '  I  dare  say  it's  nothing  more 
than  a  rumonr.' 

'  Precious  good  thing  for  the  country  if  it  was  true,'  replied 
the  other,  a  yovmg  fellow  of  two-aud-twenty  who  dawdled 
through  life  upon  an  income  of  5000*^.  a-year,  and  found  it 
quite  possible  to  combine  the  enjoyment  of  lax  living  with  the 
due  expression  of  very  orthodox  sentiments. 

Mr.  Cuthbert  did  not  answer;  his  eye  was  travelling  down 
a  column  of  the  newspaper,  and  he  felt  a  curious  pricking  of 
remorse  as  he  read.  He  had  once  been  rade  to  Erica  Rae- 
burn  :  he  had  all  his  life  retailed  dubious  stories  about  her 
father,  knowing  all  the  time  that  had  any  one  believed  such 
stories  of  himself  upon  such  shaky  evidence,  he  would  have 
used  very  strong  language  about  them.  And  now  this  fellow 
was  dead  !  Curiously  enough,  Mr.  Cuthbert,  wdio  had  many 
times  remarked  that  '  Raeburn  ought  to  be  shut  up,  or  better 
still  hung,'  was  now  the  one  to  wish  him  alive  again.  Ugh  !  it 
was  a  horrible  story.  He  quite  shivered  as  he  read  the  account 
of  those  days  of  torture. 

But  in  a  room  at  the  Park  Hotel,  Ashborough,  two  very 
different  men  were  discussing  the  same  subject.  Mr.  Fane- 
Smith,  with  all  his  faults,  had  always  been  well-intentioned, 
and  though  frightful  harm  may  be  done  by  people  with  good 
intentions,  they  can  never  stand  i;pon  the  same  level  as  those 
who  wilfully  and  maliciously  offend.  All  too  plainly  now  he 
saw  how  grievously  he  had  failed  with  regard  to  Piaeburn, 
and  patiently  did  he  listen  to  Donovan's  account  of  the 
really  good  work  which  Raeburn  had  effected  in  many 
instances. 

'  Much  as  you  may  hate  liis  views,  vou  must  at  least  see 
that,  as  some  one  has  well  expressed  it,  "  It  takes  a  bigh- 
souled  man  to  move  the  masses  even  to  a  cleaner  stye."  And 
I  say  that  a  man  who  worked  as  he  worked,  striving  hard  to 
teach  the  people  to  live  for  the  general  good,  advocating  tem- 
perance, promoting  the  spread  of  education,  and  somehow 
winning  those  whom  no  one  else  had  ever  touched  to  take  an 
intelligent  interest  in  politics,  in  science,  and  in  the  future  of 
the  race,  that  such  a  man  claims  our  respect  however  much  we 
may  disagree  with  him.' 

'But  that  he  should  have  died  ignorant  like  this!*  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Fane-Smith,  with  a  shudder. 


398  RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWIXa. 

'  'Tis  in  truth  a  tragedy,'  said  Donovan,  sighing.  '  But  I 
can  well  believe  that  in  another  world  the  barriers  which  he 
allowed  to  distort  his  vision  will  be  removed;  the  very  con- 
tinuance of  Cvistence  would  surely  be  sufficient.' 

'You  are  a  universal ist?'  said  Mr.  Fane-Smith,  not  in  the 
condemnatory  tone  he  would  once  have  assumed,  but  humbly, 
anxiously,  like  one  who  gropes  his  way  m  a  dark  place. 

'  Yes,'  replied  Donovan.  '  Believing  in  a  universal  Father, 
I  am  naturally  that.  Upon  any  other  system,  what  do  you 
make  of  the  good  which  exists  in  so  many  of  those  who  deny 
all  in  which  you  believed  Where  does  the  good  go  to  ^  I 
stood  beside  the  death-bed  of  that  noble  man  this  morning. 
At  the  very  last  I  saw  most  touching  proofs  of  his  strong  sense 
of  justice,  his  honesty,  his  desire  to  promote  the  good  of 
others,  his  devotion  to  his  child.  Can  you  believe  that  all 
that  goodness,  which  of  necessity  comes  from  God,  is  to  go 
down  into  what  you  call  everlasting  punishment  ]  Don't 
mistake  me.  Thank  God  there  is  a  punishment  which  no  one 
would  wish  to  forego,  such  punishment,  such  drawing  forth  of 
the  native  good,  such  careful  help  in  the  rooting  out  of  what  is 
evil  as  all  good  fathers  give  to  their  children.' 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  door.  Mr. 
Fane-Smith  started  and  almost  trembled  when,  on  turning 
round,  he  saw  Erica.  She  was  pale,  but  preternaturally  calm 
— looking,  however,  they  all  felt,  as  if  in  her  father's  death  she 
had  received  her  own  death-blow. 

'  I  thought  I  heard  you,'  she  said,  m  that  strangely 
'  gravened '  voice  which  is  sometimes  one  of  the  consequences 
of  great  and  sudden  trouble.  '  Has  Donovan  taken  you  into 
the  next  room  1     Will  you  come  1 ' 

For  his  life  Mr.  Fane-Smith  could  not  have  refused  any- 
thing which  she  asked  him ;  there  was  something  in  her 
manner  that  made  the  tears  rush  to  his  eyes,  though  he  was 
not,  as  a  rule,  easily  moved. 

He  followed  her  obediently,  though  with  a  sort  of  reluct- 
ance ;  but  when  he  was  once  there  he  was  glad.  Ever  since 
the  previous  day  he  had  not  been  able  to  rid  himself  of  that 
stern,  hard  look  with  which  Raeburn  had  so  terribly  I'ebuked 
him  ;  it  had  persistently  haunted  liim.  There  was  nothing 
stern  in  this  dead  face.  It  was  still  and  passionless,  bearing 
the  look  of  repose  which,  spite  of  a  harassed  life,  it  had  always 
borne  in  moments  of  leisure.  He  hardly  looked  as  though  ho 
were  dead.  Erica  could  almost  have  fancied  that  he  was  but 
resting  after  the  toils  of  a  hard  day,  having  fallen  asleep  for  a 


RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOVriNG.  399 

few  minutes,  as  she  had  often  seen  him  in  his  arm-chair  on  a 
Sunday  evening, 

Mr.  Fane-Smith  did  not  say  a  word,  his  eyes  wandered 
from  the  calm  face  to  the  still  hands  which  clasped  some  sprigs 
of  his  native  heather,  the  heather  which  Donovan's  children 
had  sent  only  the  day  before,  but  just  in  time  to  win  one  of 
his  last  smiles.  Donovan  and  Erica  spoke  together  in  low 
tones,  but  something  in  the  sound  of  that  *  gravened '  voice 
arrested  Mr.  Fane-Smith's  attention.  He  had  not  heard  what 
had  passed  before,  and  there  was  nothing  special  in  the  words 
that  fell  now  upon  his  ear ;  it  was  rather  that  his  own  soul  was 
in  a  state  of  receptivity,  and  so  through  the  first  channel  that 
came  to  hand  he  was  able  to  receive  a  new  truth. 

'I  am  only  his  child  ;  God  is  his  Father.' 

And  there,  by  the  lifeless  body  of  Luke  Eaeburn,  one,  who 
during  his  life  had  judged  him  with  the  very  hardest  judgment, 
learnt  for  the  first  time  what  Fatherhood  means. 

As  long  as  there  was  anything  to  be  done,  Erica  struggled 
on,  although  the  days  were  terribly  hard,  and  were  rendered 
infinitely  hai'der  by  the  sort  of  publicity  which  attended  them. 
There  was  the  necessity  of  appearing  at  the  inquest ;  there  was 
the  necessity  of  reading  every  word  that  was  written  about  her 
father.  She  could  not  help  reading  the  papers,  could  not  keep 
her  hands  off  them,  though  even  now  most  cruel  things  were 
said.  There  w^as  the  necessity  of  attending  the  great  public 
funeral  in  London,  of  seeing  the  thousands  of  grief-stricken 
people,  of  listening  to  the  professor's  words  so  broken  with 
sobs  that  they  could  hardly  be  heard.  A  week  later  there  was 
the  necessity  of  going  down  to  the  Ashborough  assizes  to 
appear  as  a  witness  in  the  trial  of  Drosser. 

'  What  do  you  feel  towards  this  man?'  some  one  asked  her 
once. 

'  A  great  pity,'  she  replied.  '  It  is  not  nearly  so  hard  for 
me  to  forgive  this  poor  fanatic,  as  to  forgive  those  who  have 
tavight  him  his  dark  creed,  or  to  forgive  those  who,  while  call- 
ing themselves  Christians,  have  hated  my  father  with  the 
hatred   that   is   quite   as   bad   as   murder.' 

But  when  the  trial  was  over,  and  there  was  no  longer  any 
necessity  to  do  anything.  Erica  suddenly  broke  down.  She  had 
never  till  now  yielded,  though  not  a  night  had  passed  in  which 
she  had  not  been  haunted  by  the  frightful  recollections  of  that 
Sunday  evening  and  the  days  following.  But  the  evening  she 
returned  from  Ashborough  she  could  hold  out  no  longer. 

Very  quietly  she  bore  that  sad  return  to  the  empty  house, 


400  RESULTS  CLOSELY  FOLLOWING. 

going  into  all  the  familiar  rooms  and  showing  no  sign  of  grief, 
because  those  she  loved  were  with  her,  watching  her  with  the 
anxious  solicitude  which  people  cannot  help  showing  at  such  a 
time,  though  it  is  usually  more  of  a  trial  than  a  comfort. 
Erica  longed  inexpressibly  to  be  alone,  and  when  at  length, 
deceived  by  her  unnatural  calm,  they  were  persuaded  to  leave 
her,  she  crept  down  to  the  study  and  shut  herself  in,  and  no 
longer  tried  to  resist  the  inevitable,  the  mere  surroundings 
were  quite  sufficient  to  open  the  flood-gates  of  her  grief :  the 
books  which  her  father  had  loved,  the  table,  the  empty  chair, 
the  curious  cactus  which  they  had  brought  back  from  Italy, 
and  in  the  growth  of  which  they  had  taken  such  an  interest ! 
the  desk  at  which  her  father  had  toiled  for  so  many  long  years. 
She  hid  her  face  from  the  light,  and  broke  into  a  passionate  fit 
of  weeping.  Then  exhausted,  nerveless,  powerless,  she  could 
no  longer  cope  with  that  angviish  of  remembrance  which  was 
her  nightly  torment.  Once  more  there  rose  before  her  that 
horrible  scene  in  the  Ashborough  market-place  ;  once  more  she 
could  see  the  glare  of  light,  the  huge  crowd,  the  sudden  trea- 
cherous movement,  the  fall :  once  more  she  heard  the  crash, 
the  hushed  murmur ;  once  more  felt  the  wuld  struggle  to  get 
through  that  pushing,  jostling  thi'ong  that  she  might  somehow 
reach  him.  That  nightmare  recollection  only  gave  place  to  a 
}'et  more  painful  one,  to  the  memory  of  days  of  such  agony 
that  to  recall  them  was  almost  to  risk  her  reason.  She  had 
struggled  bravely  not  to  dwell  upon  these  things,  but  this 
night  her  strength  was  gone,  she  could  do  nothing,  and  Brian, 
coming  at  last  to  seek  her,  found  that  the  climax  he  had  long 
foreseen  had  come. 

'Oh,'  she  sobbed,  'if  you  love  me,  Brian,  be  willing  to  let 
me  go  !     Don't  pray  for  me  to  live  !  promise  that  you  will  not ! ' 

A  shade  came  over  Brian's  face.  Was  the  dead  father  still 
to  absorb  all  her  love  1  Must  he  even  now  resign  all  to  him  ] 
Lose  Erica  at  last  after  these  long  years  of  waiting  !  There 
was  a  look  of  agony  in  his  eyes,  but  he  answered  quietly  and 
firmly,— 

'  I  will  pray  only  that  God's  will  may  be  done,  darling.' 

A  sort  of  relief  was  apparent  in  Erica's  flushed,  tear-stained 
face,  as  though  he  had  given  her  leave  to  be  ill. 

After  that,  for  long,  weary  weeks  she  lay  at  the  very  gate 
of  death,  and  those  who  watched  by  her  had  not  the  heart  to 
wish  her  back  to  life  aoain. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

A   NEW   year's   dawn. 

And  the  murky  planets,  I  perceived,  were  but  cradles  for  the  infant 
spirits  of  the  universe  of  light ....  And  in  sight  of  this  immeasurability 
of  life  no  sadness  could  endure  ....  And  I  exclaimed,  Oh  !  how  beauti- 
ful is  death,  seeing  that  we  die  in  a  world  of  life  and  of  creation  without 
end  I  And  I  blessed  God  for  my  life  upon  earth,  but  much  more  for  the 
life  in  those  unseen  depths  of  the  universe  which  are  emptied  of  all  but 
the  Supreme  Eeality,  and  where  no  earthly  life  or  perishable  hope  can 
enter.  Eichteb. 

For  many  weeks  Erica  bad  scarcely  a  consciovis  interval.  Now 
and  then  she  had  been  dimly  awai-e  that  Brian  was  in  the 
i-oom,  or  that  Aunt  Jean,  and  Mrs.  MacNaugbton,  and  her 
many  Secularist  friends  were  nursing  her ;  but  all  had  been 
vague,  dream-like,  seen  through  the  distorting  fever-mist.  One 
night,  however,  she  woke  after  a  sleep  of  many  hours  to  see 
things  once  more  as  they  really  were.  There  was  her  little 
room,  with  its  green-panelled  walls,  and  its  familiar  pictures, 
and  familiar  books.  There  was  Aunt  Jean  sitting  beside  the 
fire,  turning  over  the  pages  of  an  Idol-Breaker,  while  all  the  air 
seemed  to  be  ringing  and  echoing  with  the  sound  of  church 
bells. 

'  Auntie,'  she  said,  '  what  day  is  it  T 
Aunt  Jean  came  at  once  to  the  bed-side. 
'  It  is  New-year's  Day,'  she  said  ;    '  it  struck  twelve  about 
five  minutes  ago,  dear.' 

Erica  made  no  comment,  though  the  words  brought  back  to 
her  the  sense  of  her  desolation — brought  back  to  her,  too,  the 
remembrance  of  another  New-year's  Day  long  ago,  when  she 
had  stood  beside  her  father  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  and  the 
bells  of  Calais  had  gaily  pealed  in  spite  of  her  grief.  She  took 
the  food  her  aunt  brought  her,  and  promised  to  go  to  sleep 
once  more. 

'  I  shall  have  to  wake  up  again  to  this  misery!'  she  thought 
to  herself.     '  Oh,  if  one  could  only  sleep  right  on  ! ' 

But  God  sometimes  saves  us  from  what  we  have  most 
dreaded  ;  and  when,  at  sunrise,  Erica  woke  once  more,  before 
any  recollection  returned  to  her  mind,  she  became  conscious  of 
One  who  said  to  her,  '  Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway !  Behold,  I 
make  all  things  new  ! ' 

Streaks  of  golden  light  were  stealing  in  between  the  window- 
curtains.     She  lay  quite  still,  able  to  face  life  once  more  in  the 
18 


402  A  NEW  year's  dawn. 

strength  of  tliat  Inner  Presence;  able  to  endure  the  well-known 
sights  and  sounds,  because  she  could  once  more  realise  that 
there  was  One  Who  made  even  *  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise ' 
Him ;  AVho,  out  of  blackest  evil  and  cruellest  pain,  could  at 
length  bring  good.  Presently,  passing  from  the  restfulness  of 
that  conscious  communion,  she  remembered  a  strange  dream 
she  had  had  that  night. 

She  had  dreamed  that  she  was  sitting  with  Donovan  in  the 
little  churchyard  at  Oakdene  ;  in  her  hand  she  held  a  Greek 
Testament,  but  upon  the  page  had  only  been  able  to  see  one 
sentence.  It  ran  thus,  '  Until  the  times  of  the  Restitution  of  all 
things.'  Donovan  had  insisted  that  the  word  should  rightly 
be  '  restoration,'  She  had  clung  to  the  old  rendering.  While 
they  discussed  the  distinction  between  the  words,  a  beautiful 
girl  had  all  at  once  stood  before  them.  Erica  knew  in  an 
instant  who  it  must  be  by  the  light  which  shone  in  her 
companion's  face. 

'You  are  quite  right,'  she  had  said,  turning  her  beautiful  eyes 
upon  him.  '  It  is  not  the  mere  giving  back  of  things  that 
were,  it  is  the  perfecting  of  that  which  was  here  only  in  ideal ; 
— it  is  the  carrying  out  of  what  might  have  been.  All  the  time 
there  has  been  progress,  all  the  time  growth,  and  so  restoration 
is  better,  wider,  grander  than  anything  we  could  dream  of 
here  ! ' 

And,  as  she  left  them,  there  had  come  to  both  a  sort  of 
vision  of  the  Infinite,  in  sight  of  which  the  whole  of  earthly 
existence  was  but  as  an  hour,  and  the  sum  of  human  suffering 
but  as  the  pin-prick  to  a  strong  man,  and  yet  both  human 
sutFering  and  human  existence  were  infinitely  worth  while.  And 
over  them  stole  a  wonderful  peace  as  they  realised  the  greatness 
of  God's  universe,  and  that  in  it  was  no  wasted  thing,  no 
wasted  pain,  but  order  where  there  seemed  confusion,  and  a 
soul  of  goodness  where  there  seemed  evil. 

And,  after  all,  what  was  this  dream  compared  with  the 
reality  which  she  knew  to  exist  1  Well,  it  was  perhaps  a  little 
fragment,  a  dim  shadow,  a  seeing  through  the  glass  darkly ; 
but  mostly  it  was  a  comfort,  because  she  was  all  the  time  con- 
scious that  there  was  an  infinitely  Better  which  it  has  not 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive. 

Brian  came  in  for  his  morning  visit  with  a  face  so  worn  and 
anxious  tliat  it  made  her  smile, 

'Oh  !'  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  quiet,  shining  ejes, 
'  how  I  have  been  troubling  you  all  these  weeks  !  But  you  are 
not  to  be  troubled  any  more,  darling.     I  am  going  to  get  better.' 


A  NEW  year's  dawn.  403 

And  with  a  sort  of  grateful,  loving  tenderness,  she  drew  his 
face  down  to  hers  and  kissed  him. 

'Where  is  Tomi'  she  asked  presently,  beginning  for  the 
first  time  to  take  an  interest  in  the  world  again. 

'  Tom  has  gone  to  Oakdene  for  a  day  or  two,'  said  Brian. 
'  lie  is  going  to  be  Donovan's  private  secretary.' 

'How  glad  I  am!'  she  said,  'Dear  old  Tom,  he  does  so 
deserve  to  be  happy  !' 

'  They  want  you  to  go  there  as  soon  as  you  are  well  enough 
to  be  moved,'  said  Brian. 

'  I  should  like  that,'  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  eager- 
ness of  manner.  '  I  want  to  get  well  quickly ;  there  is  so  much 
work  for  us  to  do,  you  know.  Oh,  Brian  !  I  feel  that  there  is 
work  which  he  would  wish  mc  to  do,  and  I'm  so  glad,  so  glad  to 
be  left  to  do  it !' 

Brian  thought  of  the  enormous  impetus  given  to  the  cause 
of  Secularism  by  Raeburn's  martyrdom.  The  momentary 
triumph  of  bigotry  and  intolerance  had,  as  in  all  other  ages,  been 
followed  by  this  inevitable  consequence — a  dead  loss  to  the 
persecuting  side.  Would  people  at  length  learn  the  lesson] 
Would  the  reign  of  justice  at  length  daw^nl  Would  the 
majority  at  length  believe  that  the  All-Father  needs  not  to  be 
supported  by  persecuting  laws  and  unjust  restrictions  % 

Yet  it  was  not  these  thoughts  which  brought  the  tears  to 
his  eyes — it  was  the  rapture  caused  by  Erica's  words. 

'My  darling  will  live,  and  is  glad  to  live!'  he  thought. 
*  Who  could  bear  witness  to  the  truth  so  well  I  Who  be  so 
sweet  a  reconciler]' 

'  Why,  Brian  ! — Brian  !'  exclaimed  Erica,  as  th9  great  drops 
fell  on  her  hand  lying  clasped  in  his. 

And  there  was  that  in  tone  and  look  and  touch  which  made 
Brian  more  than  content. 


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"'Mrs.  Lorimer'  is  not  only  brimful  Oi'  cleverness,  profuse  and  careless 
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possesses  all  the  crispness  and  vigor  of  a  sketch,  while  afl'ording  indications  of 
descriptive  and  dramatic  power  sufficient  for  the  development  of  a  more  finished 
work.  Elizabeth  Lorimer  is  not  presented  to  us  as  in  any  way  a  model  heroine ; 
but  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  an  interest  in  her,  and  her  weaknesses  and  short- 
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There  is  a  vein  of  quiet  and  delicate  humor  throughout  that  is  very  taking 
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